He's Shattered
by Books In the Blood
Summary: John is barely managing still three years after the fall. When Sherlock returns he expects to find the same John he left. But he didn't expect John to be so shattered. Will a tragedy be just what they need to bring them back together?
1. Chapter 1

_3 years, 36 months, 156 weeks, 1095 days….._

The calendar on the wall practically screamed at John from across the room. It didn't look any differently than it normally did; simple picturesque photo above the plain white dates. It hung in the same place it did on the wall as it has since the beginning of year. Most of the time John never even looked at it; he never needed to scribble a note on a date. There was nothing of importance to remember, no need to really care what day it was. Today should have been like any other day…except that it wasn't. Today was not any other day.

John sat in an arm chair across the room from where the calendar hung ominously on the wall. There was a chill in the air and he pulled his robe tighter around him, not sure if the chill was from the air or the deep chill inside himself. His feet were cold and he should have gotten socks to put on, but he remained frozen, staring at the calendar. Light streamed in through the window opposite him and cast a light upon the calendar. Had it been completely obscured in darkness, he would have still known what day it was. He had been trying to forget but of course that didn't work, just like many other things these days.

He picked up a cup on the table beside him and drank the potent liquid inside, drawing back from the taste and at the same time happy for the drink passing through his lips. He had never been much of a drinker, until…..

Not to say that he was drunk or anything. Sure, he did well, to anyone on the outside who cared to notice. He went to work every morning, saw patients, made small talk with his co-workers. Occasionally he would even go out for dinner or a drink with a friend. He was always on time, never late. His co-workers would probably even call him ambitious for all of the overtime that he worked on weekends when we was not normally scheduled. No one knew the truth. No one knew that the real reason he worked so much was to keep from having to go home, to a home that didn't even feel like home. That he would do anything to escape what lay at his new small flat that he hated; loneliness, emptiness, flashbacks.

No, he did a good job hiding these things from the people he saw every day. By now he was pretty much an expert at hiding his feelings from the world. There was only one person skilled enough to see through his tough mask. And that one person was the one who had caused all this turmoil.

Up until this morning he had told himself that he was going to act like today was any other day. It was after all, no different than the past three years. He had planned to go to work, stay late and see some patients that he hadn't been able to see yesterday, and then come home, just like any other day. But when he woke he knew that that wasn't option. Because even though his mind knew logically that this day was no different than the other 1094 before it, to his heart, it WAS different.

He glanced at the calendar again and felt like it was practically screaming the words his own mind screamed at him all the time : _Sherlock's dead, Sherlock's dead…_


	2. Chapter 2

****

Today was exactly three years from the day he watched Sherlock jump to his death. It didn't feel like three years, mainly because it didn't seem like any time had passed. He still saw that horrible scene in his dreams several times a week. He would still go out of his way to avoid passing the street that hospital lay on. Time was supposed to make pain ease, but he didn't feel any pain leaving him.

There was a difference between coping and healing. Sure, he had learned how to cope. In the beginning he was barely existing. Days and nights merged into one long nightmare. He didn't have anything to distract him like he did now with his work. He would sit in the flat for hours on end not moving, listening to the horrible silence that filled the air without Sherlock's dialog. He could hardly sleep; every time he did horrible nightmares would jar him awake so soon after he had fallen asleep. He would always have that same nightmare of watching Sherlock's body fall from the roof to the ground, seeing his blood splattered against the pavement. He was used to nightmares; he had flashbacks of Afghanistan often after returning from the war. But now he was much more unable to cope. Whenever he would have a nightmare from Afghanistan he would jolt awake in fear, but would always hear Sherlock muttering to himself in the other room or hear the soft sound of one of his melodies on the violin and somehow after that, he was able to drift soundly back to sleep. Now, with the silence, he was unsettled.

He would rarely eat; he might go days without eating. Even now he showed next to no interest in food. But back then he might have starved himself to sickness had it not been for Mrs. Hudson. He did what he could to hide his true hurt from her but in a way she could see it. In those early days after Sherlock's death she would see to it that he would eat, often inviting him to have dinner with her, or even just leaving a meal on his table while he sat in silence, staring off into the abyss. He knew that she was worried about him; as he deteriorated further and further she took to visiting him often during the day even if was to just 'pop in' and say hello. He could see the look in her eyes, she was afraid that he might do something reckless like kill himself.

Not that the idea had never crossed his mind. It had, it just wasn't an option. While it would have been a welcome relief to be free from the pain he faced, he felt that after outliving many friends in the war it would have been ungrateful to throw his life away now. One particularly ugly night he had held a gun in his hand, moving the cold metal around his shaking hands, trying to think of a reason not to do it. He hadn't really come up with much, but still, the night ended with John throwing the gun into a bin and polishing off the last bottle he had in the house until he had passed out on the floor. Definitely the low point.

Now he had learned how to cope. Life was still difficult, and while he still spent most time at home with a bottle and a raw heart, he had pulled himself out of the utter despair that he had felt then. Mrs. Hudson had been the one to suggest he begin working as a doctor again. He was glad that she had for the silence and loneliness had become almost too much to bear. It was easy at work with so much to do, to forget temporarily about what had happened. He was always reminded again when he returned to the flat, but at least most of his waking hours were accounted for.

Mrs. Hudson obviously had not been the one to suggest that he move into another flat. Actually she had done everything to convince him to stay, but after two years of staring at Sherlock's things, left exactly as he left them, he finally had moved to another, much smaller and affordable flat. He hated it, but he just couldn't bear to stay in the house any longer. It was a constant reminder of all that he had lost and he just had to get out. Still, he couldn't manage to throw Sherlock's things out. He had carefully packed them up and placed them in storage. For what reason, he had no idea. He had no intention of ever going through them item though, he kept to himself; Sherlock's violin. He didn't know why, but for some reason he simply couldn't bear to not have a part of Sherlock close to him. He kept it in his closet in his room; not in immediate sight to be a constant reminder, but close enough that he could still run his fingers over the smooth wood of the violin when he was feeling particularly down.

John stared at the calendar and thought about all the pain the past three years had brought him. He tried to think on the good times that him and Sherlock had had but today was a solemn day. It was not for happy memories.

John looked out the window; even the weather seemed to sense the mood of the day and change its feelings accordingly. The sun which had been shining was beginning to hide behind some ominous dark clouds that were rolling in.

John sighed. If he was going to make his journey before it rained, he must make it soon. His heart was heavy as he pulled himself from his chair.


	3. Chapter 3

**John walked across the manicured lawn of the graveyard, leaning heavily on his cane. He absolutely hated that he had need of it, but shortly after Sherlock's death the pain and stiffness in his leg had returned with a vengeance. At first he went on out of sheer stubbornness; his limp had left him in almost an instant that night that he and Sherlock had chased the cab through the streets. Why shouldn't it disappear once more? Only it didn't this time; it only got worse as time went on. John hated himself for this weakness; Sherlock had proved to him in the beginning that his limp was psychosomatic and yet no matter how he tried he could not now convince himself to get past it.**

The dark clouds were gathering very ugly in the sky now, dark and heavy with the promise of rain. The wind cut through his coat and jumper and made him shiver. He was much skinnier than he had been three years ago, due to his poor eating habits and stress, and his clothes hung loosely on him.

John clumped heavily across the lawn as the pain in his leg began to get heavier and heavier the closer that he got to Sherlock's grave. When the black headstone became visible John felt his stomach clench and his mouth become dry. He pushed on nevertheless, until he was directly in front of the headstone. The wind blew hard again and the chill became almost unbearable when added to his own inner chill. John didn't come to Sherlock's grave very often. After all, what good did it really do? There was nothing here, nothing to actually connect him to his late friend. He could grieve at home just as easily as he could here, only at home no one was there to see how damaged he really was.

John coughed, trying to loosen the knot that seemed to have formed in his throat. Even so, when he began to speak his voice was thick, betraying emotion.

"I'll admit that I really have no idea why I'm here Sherlock" John began. " I know that I'm talking to myself, that you're not here...you're not anywhere. But..." John coughed again as the lump got thicker in his throat. " Three years Sherlock, it's been bloody three years since you...since you...since you've been gone. I know that you told me you were a fake, a fraud. I don't believe that for a second. You never lied to me, except for telling me you were a fake. I know you...knew you...too well for that. I've thought it over a million times in my head, why you really said that, why you jumped. I still don't know why but I know that I'm missing something. I know with certainty that you didn't lie to me Sherlock and I know..."

John could feel his eyes burning, his throat tightening but he refused to give in. " I know that the Sherlock I knew would not kill himself unless he had a good reason. Sherlock, all the time we knew each other you confused me and even in death I'm confused. But I know that I'm not wrong. You did this...this horrible thing for a reason. I just wish I knew why"

The desire to cry was almost overwhelming but, John breathed deeply and closed his eyes. He refused to cry in such a public place. He could lose it later at the flat but not now. The more that he fought the urge to cry the more his hand trembled; another after effect of Sherlock's passing.

"Sherlock" John began again, his hand trembling uncontrollably but his tears controlled. " I wish I could say I was doing okay. I really do, but I can't...not in the least. Three years later and I'm still a mess. I hate to admit it, but I've lost it. I don't even know what to do with myself anymore. I go to work, I see people, but I'm not really existing. If you were here...you could tell. I was lost when I came back from the war, and you saved me Sherlock. I had a purpose...now you're gone and I..." John stopped for a long while lest he lose composure. " I miss you so Sherlock" 


	4. Chapter 4

**Ok guys, I'm not that great at doing Sherlock's perspective but here goes :) As always reviews are much appreciated **

The dark clouds that had hung over the city threatening rain finally made good on their threat by pouring down buckets of rain. As the cloudy evening turned into night massive amounts of bone chilling rain poured down upon the unlucky souls who were walking the streets these nights, including a tall figure walking with his coat collar turned up against the wind.

Sherlock was weary...this was a truly rare thing. He often went for days without sleep but somehow this weariness was different. Maybe it was the cold rain that soaked his clothes down to the skin. Maybe it was the blisters on his feet from the miles that he walked that day. Maybe it was the fact that he couldn't remember the last time he's eaten anything. It could be anything; he refused to believe that he felt so weary because of the task that lay ahead.

John...he hadn't seen the man in three years and now he was face to face with the prospect of seeing him again. Weird thing, emotions. He tried to distance himself from them but this was proving very difficult at this moment. He was walking up the street that John's new flat lay on and soon he would come face to face with his blogger...

A weird feeling stirred in his stomach and he was puzzled. It could be nausea but it didn't quite feel that way. Indigestion? No that wasn't it either. Hunger? Ridiculous...it wasn't that. What else was left? Nerves... A most strange realization. At the prospect of seeing John again he was actually feeling a nervous stomach. Those strange, annoying emotions were actually altering his physical state now.

This was truly ridiculous. Why was he feeling nervous at seeing John? They had worked and lived together for a year and a half before his faked suicide. So why should he be nervous about seeing him now? He counted John as a rare friend, the only person that saw who he truly was and yet never left him.

_But you left him..._

That annoying thought was truly absurd. Of course he had left John. He'd had no choice. It was the only way that he could prevent John from being killed. True, he had no idea what John would say at his return, but once he explained the situation to him, he was sure that he would see that Sherlock had no other choice and that they could put this ugly episode in the past. Surely the good doctor would be pleased at seeing him again; it had to be positively dull without their consulting work .At this thought the weird churning in his stomach was replaced with another strange feeling; a warm feeling radiated from within his belly and outward, making his limbs feel a bit weak. No matter the possibilities that he ran through his head he couldn't make a deduction as to what this particular feeling was, though he was sure it was another pesky emotion affecting his body.

Sherlock walked up the street, head held high as if the cold rain was not even there. He shivered slightly and his hair hung dripping wet across his forehead, at times obstructing his vision but he was not to be dissuaded. He was nearly there.

Sherlock stood in front of the door for a moment before trying to enter. Sherlock would have liked to have returned to 221B Baker street, but he had known that to hope that John would have stayed there in his absence was illogical. Sherlock took in the surrounding street filled with buildings that were in need of some minor repairs and could see that John was not living up to the level at which he had been on Baker street. The paint on his front door was chipping, due to the hand of a lazy landlord or the carelessness of his friend he didn't know.

Sherlock worked at the doorknob methodically for a moment until the door came open. The flat was dark and quiet except for the sound of television in another room, turned to a low volume. As he entered, he noticed the flat in a poor state. A glance into the kitchen showed a sink full of dirty dishes, mostly cups and saucers, very few plates or bowls he noticed; John wasn't eating much. The kitchen table was stacked with a mess of papers, letters and newspapers which seemed to have been thrown one stack on top of each other without being gone through. Also, several glass bottles sat empty on the table. Odd, seeing John had never been much of drinker before.

Sherlock continued to walk and passed John's bedroom to the side. The bed was unmade and appeared to have been for sometime. Clothes littered the floor, books and papers scattered across an end table by the bed. Glasses sat on the table as well, with remnants of amber and clear liquid in them. On John's desk sat his laptop, but it was obviously unused as many other items sat carelessly on top of it. Sherlock didn't have to read the situation to know that John had not blogged since his death; he checked it periodically to see if he had updated it with anything. He had not; that wasn't entirely unusual. After all, he had blogged about their cases and without him there, there hadn't been any.

As he took one last glance around the bedroom he noticed something out of place. Sitting on the chest of drawers was his violin. What on earth was it doing here? He had assumed that by now John would have thrown out all of his belongings, so why the violin? For once, his mind couldn't give him a logical explanation for it.

Sherlock turned away from the bedroom and headed for the living room. He hesitated for a moment. The glow and sound of the television were coming from that room and he was sure to find John there. He allowed himself five seconds to hesitate before entering the living room.

He was surprised when he was not met with a stunned face, but rather an asleep John. Across the room John lay on the couch, fast asleep. As Sherlock walked into the living room he observed much of the same that he had found throughout the rest of the flat; papers and books scattered, dirty clothes around, bottles and cups laying on the table. Sherlock had never really known John to be an exceptionally messy person, but he had obviously changed some of his patterns since the incident.

Sherlock walked over to the couch where he could see John illuminated in the glow of the television. Sherlock could feel that weird warm feeling in his stomach again and his stomach almost seemed to jump. Again he tried to place what this strange feeling was but he could not. He was no expert on feelings; they were too unpredictable and unreliable.

John was curled up on the couch, obviously deep within a dream. His eyes fluttered underneath his eyelids, his fists curled into balls and his lip quivering; he was obviously having a nightmare. Sherlock thought to rouse him from it, but it was probably not the best way of coming back into John's life; awaking from a nightmare to see a man you assumed to be dead standing over you.

So instead, Sherlock just stood and stared at him, taking in all his features. To the untrained eye he would seem the same man that he had been three years ago. But he was not an untrained eye and he could see the true John. He was much thinner, just as his dirty dishes suggested, he hadn't been eating much. His face seemed drawn and tired; he obviously was not getting much sleep, another reason to not wake him now. Beside the couch sat John's old cane. Surely he couldn't have regained the limp that had once ailed him. But, it had to be; there was no other reason for it.

Sherlock watched John's face twist into a mask of pain as the nightmare troubled his sleep. Flashbacks? Surely they were; John often dreamt of the war, though those dreams had seemed to lessen with time. He could see that John was perspiring heavily through his sleep as evidenced by the sweat on his brow and on the collar of his pajamas shirt, but now it seemed that his body was cold. He shivered in his sleep as the startling scene continued to play.

Sherlock reached beside the couch, where a quilt lay, and pulled it up. He draped the cover over John and then sat in the chair opposite him, waiting for moment his eyes would open.


	5. Chapter 5

** So here's Chapter 5. Finally John and Sherlock reunite! As always reviews are always appreciated!**

_Falling, falling...it couldn't be. _

_Sherlock couldn't have really just thrown himself from that building. John's heart beat so quickly in his chest it felt like it would burst. He ran across the street; his eyes had to be deceiving him. This couldn't be happening..._

_With his heart beating outside his chest, everything around him faded away. Sounds seemed to fade, his vision was closing in as if the only thing that mattered was the scene directly in front of him. He pushed his legs as fast as he could go, but in only moments it seemed he was thrown to the ground as a biker crashed into him. He fell to the pavement with a hard hit to the head. _

_His vision went black for a second and his ears began to ring. He knew the signs, clearly a concussion. His head began to feel fuzzy and unclear. He tried to think but it was so hard. He wanted nothing more than to lay there though the pain, but he couldn't do that. Why?_

_Sherlock!_

_Sherlock needed him, he was in danger. John had to get up. He had to..._

_With great difficulty John pulled himself into a standing position. His legs were shaky and he didn't seem to move very fast no matter how hard he tried. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock...it was the only thing keeping him moving. The pain in his head was a million times worse standing up, but he couldn't stop..._

_A group of people was gathered around a body on the sidewalk. That couldn't be Sherlock, it just couldn't..._

_John pushed through the people that were gathering around, but it wasn't easy. It seemed like they were trying to hold him back but he couldn't understand why..._

_Then he saw. Enough people had moved so that now Sherlock's form was visible on the ground. John's stomach twisted and turned, it was all that he could do to not to be sick. Blood ran across the pavement, Sherlock's blood... so much blood. _

_John reached for Sherlock's hand. It was limp in his own, lifeless. People were pulling John off on Sherlock; they wouldn't listen no matter how much be insisted that he was a doctor. Why wouldn't they listen? John was really trying to pull himself out of the deep fog that was clouding his thoughts when someone in the crowd turned Sherlock over. John stopped in his tracks. He could hear nothing, see nothing but his dear friend..._

_There was no question that Sherlock was dead. His face was pale and lifeless, his eyes open and staring nowhere. Blood covered his face, his head, his hair, everything. _

_John's legs gave out under him as his world closed in around him. Everything went black as he fell to the ground..._

...

John jerked suddenly awake from the nightmare that often plagued him. Despite the fact that he had relived this scene hundreds and hundreds of times, it didn't make it any easier. It was always terrifying, always horrible. He always woke shaking, cold, sweating and sick to his stomach. There was little chance of going back to sleep tonight so John pulled himself up on the couch, swung his legs over the side and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. When his eyes focused and he saw `what lay in front of him, he'd never been so confused.

Sitting in front of him was the tall dark figure of his best friend, or at least the person that had been his best friend. But Sherlock was dead...John looked at the man that sat in front of him and studied him. Same pale skin, same wavy black hair, dressed in his long coat with the collar pulled up. It was Sherlock.

Well obviously he was dreaming. His normal nightmare had changed into a dream in which he could see Sherlock. John pinched his skin. It hurt. He was awake...but that didn't make sense. How could he be awake and seeing Sherlock? Unless...

He looked at what appeared to be his late friend. He was surveying John with a perplexing and cautious look. He seemed to be holding his tongue but after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. " John, are you alright?"

John surprised Sherlock by bursting out into laughter. "Well, no. No, I am not alright. I mean...I'm obviously insane aren't I?" He continued to laugh very much like he was a madman

"You're not insane, John" said Sherlock, slow and cautiously, not sure how John would act.

"But aren't I?" John asked with a chuckle "This is just great...three years I live in torment of thinking of Sherlock, reliving that awful day, putting on some great show for everyone like I'm okay when I am clearly NOT okay...drinking every night, the crushing loneliness. But no, no one could see that. I made sure of that"

John was on his feet now, pacing the length of carpet in front of the couch. A small table separated where John and Sherlock stood. Sherlock just watched as John continued to make a scene.

" Oh, yes I've gotten real good at making everyone think I was okay" John rambled on " go to work, smile, make conversation. They'll be SO surprised when they hear that John Watson has been carted off to the crazy house!"

John did rather act like he was crazy but Sherlock chose not to point this out. Instead he said, " John, you aren't crazy. You're not going to be put away"

"Well of course I am!" John practically screamed, balling up his fists. " I am clearly seeing someone that has been dead for three years AND hearing him talk to me. That can't be even nearly be defined as normal." John looked at the floor, unclenching his fists. Visions of padded rooms and strait jackets came into his head. It sounded horrible, but if he could see and talk to Sherlock….

His angry outburst seemed to melt away and when he spoke again his voice was sad "really, maybe its better this way. Life is so meaningless, unbearable as it is now. Even if I am crazy...I'd rather be crazy with you than alone."

Sherlock crossed the small distance between him and John. He put his hand on John's shoulder and shook him forcibly. " John, seriously, snap out of it. You're not imagining things, I'm really here. I can explain"

Now John was really confused. Yes, he saw Sherlock and Sherlock was dead so that had to mean he was picturing the whole thing in his head. But if it was all in his head, then how had Sherlock touched him. He couldn't touch him unless he was really alive...

Sherlock watched John's face twist into confusion a second before John crumbled to the ground unconscious.

Things felt fuzzy, almost as if his head was filled with water or jelly making it hard for his thoughts to swim through to where they needed to go. John lay for a second with his eyes closed, taking in the weird sensation. Why did he feel so funny at waking? Despite the fact that he had visited Sherlock's grave he hadn't had too much to drink that night, or rather more than usual. He knew he had a nightmare and had awakened…..had he fallen asleep again? He knew that he was forgetting something and dearly wished this fog would clear and he could make meaning out of his thoughts. Let's see, he had a nightmare, nothing unusual….he had gotten up…..

Wait…

John jumped off the couch where he was laying in record speed. His feet hit the floor quickly and his head swam. John looked around the room and his eyes finally came to rest on Sherlock sitting in an arm chair opposite him. John stared at Sherlock open mouthed, speechless so Sherlock broke the silence. "John," he spoke softly and slowly "I know that this obviously comes as a shock to you, but….."

But John had found his voice "Sherlock…..what-the-HELL?" he shouted at Sherlock. John's head was swimming and his heart was beating a million miles an hour. He was beginning to sweat profusely and he couldn't stand still. He began to pace, though never taking his eyes off Sherlock "Seriously, what the hell!?" John was boiling inside. For three years he had fallen deeper and deeper into depression, wishing with some vain hope that Sherlock could really be alive and yet with him standing here in front of him all he was feeling was anger. No, not just anger, he was furious.

"John, please. Sit down and we can talk about this" Sherlock said, motioning for John to sit down. This only served to make John more livid; how dare Sherlock just sit there like that? His voice was calm, cool and even; he showed next to no emotion on his face and he didn't even move from his chair. How could he possibly be so calm after all this time? How could he not feel ANY thing when John's whole world was upside down?

"Um…..no" John said, still pacing and continuing to sweat bullets " I think I'll stand if that's alright with you? I'll stand and you will give me some answers as to why in the world you are here…..why you jumped off that building and let me believe for three years that you were dead when you obviously are fine" John felt shaky, jittery, as if every cell in his body was moving. His bad leg was especially feeling weak but he was not about to sit, even if was just because he was being petty and trying to do the opposite of what Sherlock wanted.

"Well, obviously I will explain, did I not say that? But John you really need to calm down. Sit, please, you make me nervous just by watching you" Sherlock said in that still calm and cool voice. John could almost not stand it. The past three years flashed through his mind; the nightmares, drunken nights, the heart crushing loneliness; John's whole world had been shattered when Sherlock had disappeared and it was obvious to John that Sherlock had not been so affected.

"Well, good!" John said in a rather shrill voice " I'm glad that you can feel something at least , good to know that you're not a statue"

Sherlock got up from the chair that he was sitting in and crossed the room so that he was standing in front of John. "John, surely you don't think that I wanted to fake my death and distance myself from all the people I know, go away from my whole life here?" Sherlock asked. John hated it; the tone that Sherlock used could have very well have been used to ask what John wanted for dinner. " John, I had to do it. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, you were all in danger. Moriarty was going to have you killed if I didn't jump. That's the basics of it. I'll explain the rest maybe tomorrow when you are not so emotional"

That was it, the last straw. Of course John was emotional, how could he not be? He'd don't nothing for the past three years but he be emotional. How was one supposed to feel when their friend that they thought they had saw kill himself comes back? He didn't know what to think or feel but all he knew was you were supposed to feel SOMETHING. Sherlock stood there as if he had never left and they were just have a normal conversation. But until this point he could take it. But not after this condescending remark, as if he was somehow better than John because he didn't feel strongly about anything and John was obviously feeling as one should be, bothered.

Before Sherlock could even sense it coming, John punched Sherlock as hard as he could muster with his shaky hands. Sherlock was taken back, stumbling back before regaining his footing and putting his hand to his face. John's hand hurt where he had punched Sherlock but it felt good. Maybe he could make Sherlock experience a small portion of the pain he'd been feeling all this time. Sherlock looked back at John and John expected him to say something. But he didn't; he didn't even seem angry now. He was still standing there looking at John as if nothing at all had happened. It infuriated John.

John went for another punch but Sherlock blocked this one. He grabbed John's arm before it made contact with his face and held it back. He pushed John slightly back off him and John stared at Sherlock for a moment, looking for what? Emotion, still? He didn't know but it didn't matter. John lunged at Sherlock once more but again Sherlock blocked him. He held John's arm away from him; John swung with his other arm but Sherlock blocked that too. The more John tried to move the stronger that Sherlock seemed to be against him. John kept pushing but with his shaking hands he could not overpower Sherlock. John pulled back, as if giving in, and starred at Sherlock. Sherlock held his hands up as if he was prepared to hold John back again at a moment's notice.

"John, really? Is this necessary?" Sherlock asked. " If you would just sit down I will explain it all. Please"

John didn't respond but instead took the opportunity to run at Sherlock, pushing him back into the wall. Sherlock was knocked off his feet and John took this opportunity to punch Sherlock forcefully again. Sherlock picked himself off the floor , rubbing his new wound and looked at John with a flash of something in his eye. Anger? Good, John thought, I hope he is angry.

Sherlock walked over to where John stood, utterly a mess. His bad leg was shaking and hurting to the point he was about to collapse on it, his hands were still shaking with fury and damaged slightly from punching Sherlock. He was wet with sweat and yet he shivered. John looked up at Sherlock as he walked closer to him. He tried to read the strange look in Sherlock's eyes but he couldn't. He was still looking in Sherlock's eyes when Sherlock reached up and punched John square in the face.

John fell back and didn't even try to stop himself. He fell back onto the floor hard on his backside. He put his hand to his face and looked down at the ground. He didn't even want to look at Sherlock, to see what might be displayed in his face now. He hung his head. He hurt; not physically, other than the place on his cheek, but his heart hurt so deeply in a way he couldn't even describe to himself that he just didn't even want to get up. John was still staring at the rug when Sherlock spoke.

"I am sorry John. I didn't want to do that" Sherlock said evenly, though I little softer than he had been speaking " But really, you are being unreasonable. Sit on the couch, I'll make some tea and we can talk about this"

But John didn't want to talk. The last thing on earth he wanted to do was talk. He knew that he should probably do as Sherlock was suggesting but he just couldn't. He was weary of his feelings and didn't want to have to keep it up any longer. He was upset, mad, hurt, embarrassed confused; he could manage all that if he thought that Sherlock cared at least even a little bit, if he could just see some of his pain mirrored in Sherlock's face.

"John, please, get up" Sherlock said. John could see out of the corner of his eye Sherlock reaching a hand out to help John up but he didn't take it. Instead he got up quickly, pushing past Sherlock and running for his bedroom. He had just gotten into the room and locked the door before the tears came spilling from his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Let me know what you think :)**

John leaned against the door and slid down to floor. He pulled his knees up and rested his face on them. Soon the knees of his thin pajama pants were soaked with tears. John rarely gave himself so completely over to weeping but he didn't care anymore and he couldn't be strong enough now to hold back. This whole day had been too much; the 3 year anniversary, going to Sherlock's grave and having Sherlock come back into his life all in one day. Sure he was happy and excited to his have his friend back, but it was all a little overwhelming. John put his arm over his mouth as he cried, muffling any escaping noises with his sweatshirt; though he was falling apart that didn't mean he wanted Sherlock to hear it.

As sobs continued to shake John's body, there was a knock on the door. John scooted away from the door and turned so that he was facing it. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and watched the shadows under the door as Sherlock moved closer " John?" Sherlock spoke " Obviously, I said something wrong?"

It was the same tone that Sherlock used when John would point out to him that he had had a social blunder such as cheering at a murder or being excited at the scene of a kidnapping. It was the tone that suggested Sherlock knew by the actions of John that he had not performed satisfactorily in a social situation. It was surprising to John that Sherlock made this deduction all on his own this time, but then again John's emotional outbursts would make it hard to not tell that he'd said something wrong. John wiped a stray tear that ran down his face and didn't respond.

Sherlock paused for a long time " I upset you, I can see…..Um, when you are ready to talk, I'll be here….."

It was very strange for John to hear pauses and doubt in Sherlock's words. It seemed as if he didn't know what to say for once in life. Good. John didn't know what to say either.

Sherlock paused for another good long while before saying " Alright…..well, I'm making some tea if you want some" he said before John watched his shadow pass the door and disappear. John was so angry that he could break something. Sherlock was so blind about some things. It was like he really didn't understand that John should be upset by him faking his death, even if it was to save his life, as Sherlock claimed.

But John didn't have the energy to think of all that right now. Despite the fact that the morning sun was beginning to peak through the curtains, John pulled himself up and threw himself on the bed. A few stray sobs managed to escape from his mouth as he buried his face into his pillow before drifting off to sleep again.

….

Sherlock sat on the couch and sipped his tea, listening for sounds, any sound, coming from John's bed room but he didn't hear anything. Sherlock finished the last of the tea and then leaned back on the couch, stretching his long legs off the end of the couch. He placed his hands on his stomach as he pondered the problem at hand. He had felt rather positive before coming to the flat; he'd even had the weird nervous feeling in his stomach at his seeing John. Why that was he wasn't really sure , other than it had been a positively lonely and taxing couple of years. Very few put up with him, not that he cared, but it was nice to have someone to listen to his brilliant ramblings. Now that he thought of it he was sure that he actually was hoping to come home to something familiar. The way that John was acting was not familiar and it was rather confusing.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling. He had not handled this well, he had hurt John. That much was obvious, but John didn't even give him a chance to explain so how was he supposed to explain himself and make John feel more at ease? Sherlock was sure that tomorrow John would come to his senses and let him explain.

Sherlock rolled over on to his side on the couch and stared at the wall. He felt weary and completely done in. When he thought on all the work that he' d been doing these years, a lot even for him, it made sense. But all that was done now. He had accomplished what he'd set out to do; all of Moriarty's men were dead and all the people he cared for were safe. Pretty soon John would forgive him and things could go back to normal.

Sherlock drifted off to sleep musing about this. His sleep was uneasy and punctured by unusual nightmares in which he only was only able to pull himself out of by the sound of John's voice in his sleep.

John woke a few hours later from a dreamless sleep. He was thankful that he didn't have any nightmares but he also didn't feel rested either. He sat up and pulled his legs over the side of the bed. He stretched and tried to work out the kinks in his muscles that had resulted from sleeping on his stomach. He sat for a few moments, just staring at the window where bright, almost blaring sunlight was pouring into the window, obstructed only by a thin curtain. He wondered what Sherlock was doing or if he was even still here. John listened but he didn't hear any movement in the house. He could smell the scents of breakfast drifting into his bedroom though; bacon, eggs and coffee. Sherlock must still be here then, though it was extremely odd for Sherlock to cook as he barely ate at all.

John ran his hands through his hair and then placed them on his knees. He thought about what had happened last night as the place on his cheek burned with pain where Sherlock had hit him. He knew that he had overreacted; in the morning light he could see that he should have handled it better. Sure, Sherlock could have handled it better too, but still, he shouldn't have tried to fight him. And yes, it would have helped if he had actually tried to listen to what Sherlock had tried to tell him. He'd let his anger and emotions get the most of him. He was sure that he hadn't offended Sherlock because he wasn't even sure that was possible, but still he shouldn't have hit him.

John got up and walked to the closet to find something to wear. He realized by the almost empty closet and mounds of clothes on the floor that he was way past due to doing laundry. How hadn't he noticed that before? He thought about simply keeping his pajamas on but when he looked at himself in the mirror he thought better of it. He really needed a shower too (how long had it been?) but some new clothes would have to be good enough right now.

John threw on the first acceptable items of clothing he found and then walked to the door. He hesitated for a second, his hand on the doorknob, wondering if he was ready for this. He wasn't sure that he was, but since he would never know until he did it, he opened the door.

John looked around the living room and didn't see any sign of Sherlock except for his coat lying on the couch. He proceeded to the kitchen, limping slightly; it didn't hurt as bad as it had yesterday and he refused to get his cane unless it got worse.

John didn't find Sherlock in the kitchen either; light streamed through the window and illuminated the big mess John had left in the kitchen. Interestingly enough he hadn't thought it messy yesterday but today he suddenly felt the need to through away some of the trash and clean the dishes. John noticed a plate of breakfast sitting on the table untouched and a pot of coffee sitting beside it.

"That's for you by the way" that familiar voice said behind him. John jumped slightly at the noise and turned around to face Sherlock.

"Really, Sherlock?" John said when he saw him. Sherlock had obviously just taken a shower as he was drying his hair with a towel and had John's bathrobe on. Because of the height discrepancy between the two men the robe was rather short on Sherlock.

Sherlock could see John was eyeing his robe "Oh this? Yes, I needed a shower and since none of my things are here, I just figured that I'd use yours. Knew you wouldn't mind" he said care freely.

John shook his head "Um, actually I do mind Sherlock" he couldn't believe that Sherlock was just walking around using his things and acting like he owned the place " I suppose you just helped yourself to my toothbrush while you were at it as well"

Sherlock didn't pick up on the sarcasm. " Of course" he said as he tossed his towel over the edge of one of the chairs at the table and then sat down. He poured himself a cup of coffee while John starred at him open mouthed. He didn't even know what to say. Sherlock was unbelievable. He'd been gone three years and he could just walk back in here and act like he lived here.

John sat down in the chair opposite Sherlock and watched him as he glanced through the paper and drank his coffee. "Eat, John. You're entirely too thin" he said without even looking up from the paper.

John looked at the plate of food in front of him. It was obvious that Sherlock had detected a bit that John was mad at him; he would never cook something for him without some sort of motive behind it. " I'm not really hungry" John said.

"Don't be stubborn" Sherlock said, folding the paper up " I'd point out how much weight you've lost but I don't think that's necessary"

Knowing Sherlock, he could probably tell John how much he'd lost within 2-3 pounds accuracy. He wasn't going to challenge this theory. "Speak for yourself" John said as he reluctantly began to eat his eggs. " How much have you eaten since I last saw you?"

"I'm fine" Sherlock said shortly. "I've eaten as much as I've needed"

"Coming from the guy who never eats" John said sarcastically.

"Shut up and eat your breakfast" Sherlock said as he starred off into the distance, probably getting lost in thought like he often did. John finished his breakfast as Sherlock continued to think. The silence was unbearable to John. He wanted to say something, but he didn't know what. Things weren't okay and he couldn't talk like they were and yet he didn't want to talk about where Sherlock had been and what he'd been doing. Well, at least he didn't want to ask about it. If Sherlock chose to tell him that was fine, but he wasn't going to ask.

John pushed his chair from the table and stood. Sherlock didn't look at him, appeared to not even notice the movement. He was probably in his mind palace and therefor wouldn't notice much of anything. John wanted to apologize for how he'd acted yesterday but the words got stuck on his tongue and he just turned and left the kitchen.

Noticing the time John jumped in the shower to get ready for work. He showered, combed his hair and put on more acceptable work clothes. When he came out of the bathroom Sherlock was exactly where he'd left him in the kitchen. John didn't know what to say or even if he should say anything, so he just walked for the door. Sherlock surprised him by saying, "Going out?" from the kitchen.

John was surprised. Sherlock rarely noticed when he left when he was in his mind palace. "Yeah, I'm going to work" John said.

"We don't have work" Sherlock said in a surprised tone.

John was annoyed; leave it to Sherlock to believe that everything had to involve him. "_We _don't but _I _do" he said " You know Sherlock, you were gone for three years. I had to find something to do to make money" John was glad he was in the living room and Sherlock was in kitchen and therefor couldn't see his expression. Couldn't see the pain that he was feeling at thinking of how his life had been these past few years.

For once, Sherlock didn't have anything to say. John opened the door and left the flat without saying another word.


	7. Chapter 7

** As always reviews are much appreciated!**

John found that his anger followed him to work. Normally work was a distraction from Sherlock but he was finding today that Sherlock was becoming a distraction from his work. He made mistakes, was slower than usual and was just generally short with people. His co-workers tried to make small talk in the morning but after a few misplaced remarks no one bothered him the rest of the day. Normally he would leave work feeling rather refreshed. It was hours that he was able to distance himself from him own problems and help others with their problems and that always felt good, to focus on someone else other than himself. But today he found himself actually counting the hours until he could leave.

When it was closing time he made his way out of the building faster than he ever had before. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned it on. 10 missed calls- all from Sherlock, but no messages. 5 text messages- also from Sherlock

_So, where is this new job of yours John? –SH_

_What time do you get off?-SH_

_John, I don't seem to be able to find any of my things in the flat. Did you keep any of my things?- SH_

_Are you off work yet?-SH_

_When you come home, pick up some milk?- SH_

John sighed. That's what happened when Sherlock was left to his own devices with no case and nothing else to distract him. John noticed 1 text message from Stamford asking if he wanted to go out for a drink after work. John didn't have to think twice.

Twenty minutes later John and Stamford sat at a small table at the local pub. John downed his first glass and was starting quickly on his second when Stamford grabbed his glass " Hey, uh, why don't you slow down a little" he suggested.

John snatched the glass from Stamford's hand and began to drink. He had finished the glass, slamming it down on the table. Stamford was staring at John "What?!" he snapped.

Stamford's eye widened " Wow, someone's sure on edge tonight" he said.

"I'm not edgy" John said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "I'm just looking to relax"

Stamford gave John a knowing look " What's up?"

John was reluctant to talk. The last thing he wanted to do when he was trying to forget about Sherlock was talk _about _Sherlock. He didn't look at Stamford as he ordered another drink. Normally he wouldn't drink so much, especially in public (as that tended to break his "normal" façade) but tonight he just didn't care.

"John" Stamford said softly as he leaned towards John so that he could be more discreet "I know what yesterday was. I know it was hard on you. You can talk about it if you want"

As John started on his third drink he could feel his resolve weakening as the alcohol began to get to him. "You don't even know the first of it" John said.

"Well you could let me in on it" Stamford said.

As John finished his third drink he couldn't think of any reason not to tell Stamford. John leaned towards Stamford and motioned him to lean forward as well. " This has to stay between you and me, completely between me and you" he said.

"Of course" Stamford said.

"Yesterday…." John started. He knew that Stamford was probably going to think that he was crazy. But then again he thought himself crazy yesterday. "Sherlock….is….alive" he practically whispered.

Stamford leaned back slightly and his eyes widened. " What?" he said surprised.

"Yesterday I woke up and Sherlock was in my flat" John said. "He's still there now. He's been alive all this time."

Stamford held a look of disbelief on his face " If he's been alive all this time, then where has he been and why would he fake his death?" he asked.

"I don't know" John said, "things got heated, I punched him and that was about it. We really haven't talked about it yet"

John surveyed Stamford's face, looking for signs of how he was taking it. "Sounds like you need another drink" he said as he ordered another one for John.

Yep, John thought, he definitely thinks I'm crazy.

…

Bored….It was terribly boring to have nothing to do all day. Sherlock felt as though his mind was disinigrating without a case to solve. The nicotine patches helped some but still it wasn't enough. He wasn't going to try to talk to anyone at the station until he had talked to John about what had happened and he hoped that that would be soon so he could back to things as they had been.

Where was John? Sure, Sherlock knew that John had went to work but that had been a good 12 hours ago. He should have been back by now. He hoped that he came home soon so that he could have something to do beside think about how his brain cells were being destroyed by the mundane.

Sherlock heard a sound outside the door and walked to window. He saw a cab pull up to the curb and expected to see John get out but instead he saw John's friend Stamford get out of the cab. So, John was out with Stamford, not unusual. What he saw next was unusual. Stamford went around the other side of the cab, opened the door and reached in. A few seconds later John emerged from the cab supported heavily by Stamford. John's legs moved clumsily and at one point Stamford practically had to pick John up from the pavement. John was intoxicated which was strange. Sherlock knew that John drank less than he would prefer at times because he didn't want to be like his sister and rely on the drink to get him through life. Sherlock knew that John felt strongly about this and yet…..

Sherlock looked at the stumbling form of his friend and then looked around the flat considering the large amount of alcoholic bottles that he'd seen around the flat- empty. He thought about John's poor eating habits and his messy living space. Something was wrong with John; he was no longer fighting for his view to stay away from the bottle. Sherlock knew from John's behavior last night and this morning that he was upset but Sherlock now felt it was more than that. Something had happened to his friend while he was away to damage him.

Sherlock went to the door and opened it as Stamford reached out for it. When Sherlock saw the look on Stamford's face he feared the man might have a heart attack. He turned pale white and froze on the step. "He's not crazy…." He whispered quietly, trying to keep it to himself. His eyes widened with disbelief.

"No, a little unstable but hardly crazy" Sherlock said pleasantly. He motioned for Stamford to come into the flat and he stumbled into the room, still starring at Sherlock like he was an oddity. That wasn't anything really new since people often didn't understand him. He was sure he'd get more of that same look in the days and weeks to come.

When Stamford and John stepped into the living room Sherlock was able to see more clearly how badly John was doing. He was barely conscious, his eyes bloodshot and glazed, his face red and sweaty. Sherlock was alarmed; he had never seen John like this.

He moved out of the way as Stamford carried John to his bedroom. When Stamford emerged from John's bedroom he was wrenching his hands nervously. "I really didn't know" He said, " I would have cut him off sooner but I really thought he was going loony and he was so upset that I couldn't bear to do it this time"

Sherlock was puzzled " Upset? What he was upset about" he asked.

"I sent him a text and asked if he wanted to go out tonight" Stamford said " You know, I figured after yesterday that he would need someone to talk to. Well, I could see he was really upset and I just figured it was because of yesterday. But then he tells me you are alive. I didn't believe him, I was sure that he had finally lost it" Stamford lowered his voice "He's done good hiding it these years but I know he really isn't well. So, he was just completely insistent that you were alive. I felt sorry for him and let him keep drinking when I should have cut off."

Sherlock was confused. " What do you mean yesterday? Why should he be so upset about yesterday?"

Stamford raised his eyebrows " Really?" he asked in disbelief " Because of you, of course. Your death….or supposed death I guess. He thinks you've been dead all this time and he has been trying to deal with it. Then he finds out you've been alive all this time? No wonder he's so messed up" He shook his head and looked toward John's bedroom with concern on his face. "I'll give him a call tomorrow, check on him" he walked to the door and walked back out into the night.

Sherlock stood in the same place that he'd been in when talking to Stamford. That was the reason for all this? All of John's strange behavior, his drinking, his limp, all of it was because of Sherlock's death? Sherlock found it hard to believe. He knew that when he left it would be hard on his friend. But this hard? Why should it be this hard?

Sherlock walked to John' bedroom and stood in the doorframe, watching his friend. John was sprawled out on his bed face first, still in his shoes and coat. He appeared to be out cold until Sherlock saw him move his arm. Sherlock walked up to the bed. John was facing the other direction but Sherlock knew he was still awake. "John" he said, " Are you….okay?"

John muttered something unintelligible into his pillow.

"Listen John, I know that you're really upset and I confess that I don't know what to say" Sherlock said. He was uncomfortable. Talking about feelings was not easy for him.

John muttered something Sherlock couldn't hear, though this time louder.

"Stamford says you've been doing very poorly" Sherlock said, " And he said that is because I was gone, and-

John rolled over so that he was facing Sherlock, though he kept his eyes closed. " Out" he said quietly.

Sherlock didn't move and so John said louder, " Out, get out Sherlock"

"I know you're highly intoxicated" Sherlock said, " So I know you probably don't want to talk but I really think-"

"Out!" John shouted, his face scrunching into a mask of pain though he refused to open his eyes. "I said get OUT! God, Sherlock, just get out! The last thing I want to do is listen to you drone on. Please, just leave me alone"

His face was both angry and sad at the same time. Sherlock wasn't sure what he'd done wrong this time, but he left John's room. Sherlock's chest felt tight and odd; he knew that he was having an emotion but he wasn't sure what he was feeling. He knew logically that John was intoxicated and didn't mean to say anything mean spirited to him, so there was no reason to be having any strange feelings, so he wasn't sure where this was coming from.

Sherlock left John alone the rest of the night. He only went into John's room once more; he was sure that John was asleep because he didn't yell when he came in. Sherlock placed a wastebasket beside John's bed and a glass of water on the bedside table. He would need it when he awoke.

He walked back to the door and before he walked out he turned back toward John and said, " I am sorry, John" before closing the door.


	8. Chapter 8

** Enjoy and review! :)**

John woke the next morning and his stomach gave a lurch immediately. He leaned over the side of the bed both surprised and thankful to see a wastebasket strategically placed by his bed. He turned toward it is just in time to dump his entire stomach contents; when he laid back on the bed his stomach felt sore and painful but empty.

John stared at the ceiling and listened to the steady rain that was falling onto the roof. Normally the sound would be comforting but right now every raindrop that hit the roof sounded like a cymbal inside John's head. He closed his eyes but the room still spun.

He felt immediately guilt at having lost it last night. John admitted that he had been drinking much more than he needed to lately but he never completely got drunk like he did last night. And he wasn't even sure why he had done it; sure he was upset, mad, angry and resentful at Sherlock. But why had he gone over the edge? John didn't even know anymore. All he had wanted since that horrible day three years ago was to have Sherlock back. All he wanted was to have him back in his life, in person and not just in his nightmares. He'd wanted it so much that he really had thought that he was going crazy when he saw Sherlock that night. As pathetic as it made him feel he really hadn't thought of much else but Sherlock all that time. Missing him, wanting him back, wondering what life would be like if he hadn't left.

Coming back from Afghanistan had been hard; he hadn't been as depressed then as he was now but he was close. He'd been completely lost and with nowhere to go. And then within a matter of days he met Sherlock, moved into his flat and caught a killer with him. He'd felt so exhilarated during that first case. Sherlock surprised and awed him with what he was able to do and the fact that he was suddenly let in on to Sherlock's crazy life gave him a sense of purpose. But more than that Sherlock had given him a deep friendship and a reason to live.

When he had watched Sherlock jump and believed him to be dead all that was gone. Days melted from one to another in a mass of plain, boring lonely days. He'd lost his purpose, his job, his friend. Deep inside him he had always held to a hope that Sherlock could somehow still be alive. But he never really considered that it could actually be true.

He felt like he should be feeling something different. Like he should just be happy Sherlock was alive and welcome him back into his life with open arms. But that wasn't how he was feeling. He was mad at Sherlock and he wasn't sure how he wanted Sherlock in his life now. He didn't know if they could be flat mates and colleges again. He didn't know if they could be friends again.

As John lay on the bed pondering this he heard the sad tone of a violin begin to play. Even though it sounded so loud to John and made his head pound harder, it was actually comforting. The sound of Sherlock's violin was familiar; when John listened to it he could forget for a little while that things weren't as they should be. John didn't know how long he lay there listening to Sherlock play but by the time he finally got up from the bed his head didn't hurt as bad and the room didn't spin when he stood.

John wasn't sure that he had ever heard Sherlock play such a sad tune; it wasn't familiar but Sherlock often played his own creations. The tune was so sad it made John sad to listen to it. When John put his hand on the doorknob and begin to turn it, he heard Sherlock's tune immediately change to an upbeat one. That was strange….it was very unlike Sherlock to stop in the middle of a melody and play another, especially one so different.

John walked into the living room where Sherlock was facing the window playing his now peppy tune. He didn't turn around as John walked into the kitchen and made tea. When he returned to the living room with the tea Sherlock stopped his tune and turned around. He played his violin on the table and sat down on the couch opposite the chair where John was sitting. Sherlock looked so comical that John almost laughed; it was obvious that Sherlock was tired of wearing his dirty clothes. Since he didn't have any of his own anymore he had bowered some of John's. The jumper on Sherlock looked completely out of place and the trousers left considerable amount of skin exposed at the end. " We can go get some of your things today if you'd like" John said as he sipped his tea.

Sherlock's mouth twitched in an almost smile as he said, " You don't think these suit me?" he drank a little tea and added " You kept some of my things? Why didn't you throw them out?"

John didn't know what to say. It did sound ridiculous that he had saved all of Sherlock's things when he truly believed him to be dead. It sounded desperate; not that John wasn't slightly desperate but he didn't want to come off as desperate.

John coughed slightly " Um, yeah. I kept a few things" he said.

Sherlock gave John a slightly amused look as though he was surprised, but he didn't say anything.

John looked out the window and watched the rain as he sipped his tea. After a while, Sherlock broke the silence. " Are you feeling alright?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm fine" John lied. He didn't feel fine and he certainly didn't feel good when he woke up.

"Do you remember anything from last night" Sherlock asked.

John thought back on the night. He remembered drinking with Stamford but after that it got fuzzy. He knew Stamford had taken him home, but he had passed out after that. " No, not much" John said.

"Stamford seemed rather worried about you" Sherlock said, " Seemed to think you were quite upset about something"

John's stomach gave another lurch and was glad he didn't have anything left in his belly. John wondered what Stamford had told Sherlock; he hoped that Stamford hadn't told Sherlock how desperate he was. Stamford was the only person that John had even remotely let in on to the fact that he was drowning in his grief.

"Oh Stamford, he's just a worrier" John said, " I had a few too many drinks and that was all. A little out of character but no, I was not upset, he just seemed to think I was. I just had a stressful day and needed to unwind" John had never made it a habit to lie to Sherlock; in fact he couldn't remember ever lying to him about anything. But that's the way that Sherlock was going to be with him now that's what he was going to do too.

Sherlock gazed at John with one of his calculating looks, one that told John that Sherlock didn't believe what he said. " Needed to unwind?" Sherlock asked. " John, I've never heard you use that expression. You're not a heavy drinker; hopefully you're not taking up after Harry"

John could tell that Sherlock didn't buy his excuse and the tone Sherlock used made John feel like a scolded child. John could feel his ears turn red. " Sherlock, it's not really any of your business is it?" he asked. " I don't need you to look after me. I am totally capable of taking care of myself"

Sherlock tilted his head as he surveyed John. " Of course you are" he said.

A long uncomfortable silence passed between the two men. The rain continued to fall heavily as they sipped their tea. John was trying to avoid eye contact with Sherlock and it seemed he was doing the same. After a long time, when John couldn't take it anymore, he spoke up and said, " So, you ready to share some information with me? Let me in on your secret as to how you threw yourself off a building and managed to survive? Oh, and what you've been doing these past three years that you couldn't let me in on" He tried to hide his anger and distain but it didn't work so well. Bitterness dropped from his words like rain on a window ceil.

Sherlock leaned back on the couch and looked at John. " I told you the other night, it was necessary to your survival that I make it known I was dead" he said, " I certainly did not want to do it."

"Yes, I understand that" John said, " But I'm unclear on several of the details. Such as everything that happened after you sent me away that night. You know, when you had someone call me and claim that Mrs. Hudson had been shot so that I wouldn't know what you were doing"

"I told you, I had to do that" Sherlock said, " I knew that Moriarty wouldn't be satisfied until I was dead. My being dead wasn't enough either; he would want me to die a disgrace. What better way than suicide? And a public suicide at that."

"But you could have let me in on some of this" John said, " You could have let me know that you were going to have to go away, couldn't you? I didn't have to be with you but you could have at least let me know that you weren't dead. And how did you do it? The autopsy, your funeral? How could all of this happened without anyone knowing"

Sherlock seemed reluctant to share this information. " Molly was a great help in this for me" he said.

John's eyes widened. " Molly knew?" he asked " All this time she knew? You let her in on this and didn't feel that you could share it with me?" he could feel himself getting angry though he was trying to hold it in. He was angry, and hurt, that Sherlock had kept him in the dark.

" I couldn't let anybody know that didn't have to know" Sherlock said, " The only reason that Molly knew was because she was instrumental in me faking my death. Her, and my homeless network, they were the only ones that knew because I needed them to make my death happen."

"Well, let's hear it, how did they do it?" John asked. " I'm confused because I know I saw you on the pavement, dead. It was definitely you and you were definitely dead"

"You'll remember also John that you were very disoriented in those moments" Sherlock said, " The concussion; you can't really be sure what you saw."

John felt anger welling up inside. " Wait a second," he said, " That guy on the bike, the one that threw me down…he was one of yours wasn't he? You did that on purpose!"

Sherlock remained calm. " I had to John" he said, " I know you John and you know me better than anyone else. If anyone could have seen through my facade, it would be you. I had to make sure you didn't have all your senses about you or you would have seen I wasn't dead. You would have questioned the doctors that showed up to take me away; you, as a medical doctor yourself would have seen that they weren't real doctors. I had to get rid of you for the few precious moments that I needed to escape."

John thought back to that day. When he thought back on it, he was always sure of what he had seen. But now he wasn't so sure. He had hit his head so hard when he had fallen his vision and hearing were fuzzy and he was disoriented. But he had still been sure that he knew what he saw. After he had collapsed on the pavement upon seeing Sherlock's body and realizing that he was dead, they had taken him into the hospital. He wasn't sure how long he had been asleep, but when he awoke they had told him that he had had a concussion. Molly had been the one to come to his room and confirm Sherlock's death. That, combined with Sherlock's closed casket, made sense. It was coming together now, but John didn't like it.

"But why Sherlock?!" John asked his voice rising, " Why couldn't Molly come and tell me the truth? Why couldn't she tell me you were alive but that I had to not see you or speak to you? Why…." His voice caught with emotion and he refused to give in to it, "why did you tell me you were a fake? You wanted me to not only believe that you were dead but also discredit our entire relationship? What was the purpose of that?"

Sherlock looked off to the side. As he began to speak again he wouldn't look at John and John almost thought that Sherlock looked sad. " Moriarty had snipers trained on you, Mrs. Hudson and Lesrade at the time we were on the roof. They were ordered to shoot if I didn't jump. When Moriarty shot himself it eliminated every possibility of me getting out of jumping. I had to do it; I knew that this was a possibility and was prepared for it. My people were watching around the vicinity and had their orders what to do in the event that they saw me jump. I knew that you would accept that I was dead….I had taken previously mentioned precautions so that you would be sure of this. But telling you I was a fake….that was for you, not me"

"What?!" John burst out angrily, " What do you mean that that was for me? What good do you think that could have possibly done?"

Sherlock finally moved his eyes so that they were meeting John's. " I wanted to make a clean break. I was going to have to hunt down Moriarty's men before I could return here. There was no way of knowing how long that would take or even if I would be successful. I wasn't sure at the time that I would be able to return here. I didn't want you hold on to my memory for too long. I wanted you to move on."

Again John was glad that he had already gotten sick, or else he might have now. His stomach turned and his and chest felt tight. He had suffered for years and it wasn't even necessary. Sherlock could have told him; there was no reason he had to be in the dark. He could have kept it secret. But it wasn't even that that bothered him so much, if he admitted it to himself. What really bothered him was Sherlock; the way he spoke was so emotionless and calculating as if John was a problem that had to be taken care of.

John stood " Did you really think I'd believe that?" he asked Sherlock " Do you really think I would believe you were a fake, that our entire relationship was fake? That you made Moriarty up? Really, Sherlock, you think I'm that stupid?"

"No, John" Sherlock said " I do not think you are stupid. Far from it. I knew you might not take it as truth but I hoped that might, to make it easier on you"

John nodded "Yes, Sherlock. Easy….right" he said. " Because I would certainly describe the past 3 years as easy." He began to pace. He paced for a few minutes and when he stopped he looked Sherlock square in the face "I didn't believe it for a second Sherlock. I meant what I said that night you were arrested. I know you for real; I believed in what you do and knew without a doubt that you were real and so was Moriarty. You didn't take me for a fool, not even for a second."

John took his keys out of his pocket and took a small key off the chain and tossed it to Sherlock. It hit him on the chest and fell into his lap. Sherlock picked it up and stared at it. " That's where you'll find your things" John said " I'm sure that you're clever enough to figure out where the key came from"

John turned and began to walk for the door. Sherlock realized that John was set on leaving now and got up from the couch. He walked over to John and grabbed his arm. John stopped and turned around. He pushed Sherlock's hand off him and said, " What? What do you want?"

"John, where are you going?" Sherlock asked. " We were talking"

"I'm done talking" John said, " Oh, and by the way Sherlock, when you get your things, I think it would really be best if you could just go somewhere"

A rare look of confusion passed over Sherlock's face "Go where?"

"I don't care" John said, " Somewhere, anywhere. Stay with Mycroft, or your new best friend Molly. I don't care. Just don't come back here"

"But John, why?" Sherlock asked. " I thought-"

"Oh I know, you thought you would just come back and everything would be the same. That I would be the same, we could just move back into 221B and solve crimes together again? Right? Am I right? Well, sorry to ruin your plans but that isn't going to happen. I can't take all this right now. It's too much"

"John I can give you some space" Sherlock said urgently, " Whatever you need. Just tell me. I am trying"

John looked at Sherlock and felt his resolve waning. Sherlock actually looked sad. It was the first sign of real emotion that John had seen him have since his return. Maybe Sherlock was really trying and this was the best that he could do. But John held strong. " Leave Sherlock, that's what I need" he said.

Sherlock drew back. Pain flashed over his face. " But John, I have no where to go" he said.

John wanted to hit him, to say that he didn't care, to order him to leave. But he couldn't. Sherlock looked so sad, so distraught as if the idea of leaving actually would bother him. John wanted to be cruel, wanted to yell at him, make him feel the pain that he had felt for years. But when Sherlock looked at him like that, he couldn't. The sudden impulse to embrace his friend pulled at him. Lest he give in John turned toward the door. "Well, stay here then. But I'm going out. I don't know when I'll be back" and with that he opened the door and stepped out into the storm.


	9. Chapter 9

John took off down the street as the cold rain pelted him. His head still pounded from the drink of last night and soon he was shivering from the rain but he didn't care. He didn't know where he was going, he just kept walking.

After a while he came to a park and decided this was as good a place as any to stop. His bad leg was hurting and he didn't want to walk anymore. He found a bench and sat down. Luckily because of the weather he alone in the park. He hung his head and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply, in-out, in-out. The cold air stung his lungs but he continued to breathe deeply. If he focused on his breathing, he might be able to hold himself together.

As he hung his head rain ran down over his head and off his hair, hitting the ground. The water had soaked him to the skin; he was probably going to get pneumonia now not that it mattered. John sat up and looked around the park; the empty playground equipment, the cold fog that was curling up around the ground, the rain that touched everything and everyone who dared to be out and about. How had this become his life? How was it he came to be here, sitting in the rain in the middle of park with nowhere to go? He didn't even know what to do anymore.

Part of him secretly wanted to pretend that nothing had happened; that Sherlock had never left, never betrayed him. Part of him did just want to go back to Baker Street and go back to being a consulting detective with Sherlock. He hated that part of him. It was desperate and weak and he couldn't listen to that part. He couldn't just accept Sherlock back into his life as if nothing had ever happened. No matter what Sherlock thought, this was all a big deal and couldn't simply be shoved under the rug. He'd had to learn how to adapt to not having Sherlock around, and while he may have not done that great of a job, he still had adapted in some way and it was going to take some time to even get close to what had been there before.

John had been right that the storage unit had been easy to find; it had taken Sherlock all of 2 minutes to figure out where to go. An hour later he sat in John's flat with a few boxes of mostly essential items. He'd been very surprised when he had seen the amount of items in the storage unit; it appeared to him that all of his items must be in this size of a unit. He left most of things there and took just what he immediately needed. Seeing as John had wanted to send him away and only reluctantly agreed to let him stay, he didn't think he'd appreciate Sherlock filling his living room with his items.

Sherlock felt somewhat refreshed after having changed into his own pyjams and dressing gown. But something was still off. He sat down on the floor in the living room and began to look through his things. They had an old, unused smell to them and they even felt a little foreign to him. He hadn't seen these things in years and it was odd to have them now.

After digging through some of his clothing he found a photo in the bottom of one of the boxes. Sherlock picked it up and starred at it. This was not something that would have been found in his personal items; John must have put it here. It was a photo of him and John at Christmastime. John had felt the need to decorate the flat with a large amount of detracting decorations, including a fully decorated tree. Mrs. Hudson had insisted that "the boys" pose in front of it. Sherlock had argued that he didn't want to, but eventually he had given in so she would stop talking about it. Sherlock didn't hold onto photos; they were sentimental things that he hardly saw the use for. Yes, this was definitely John's; he had kept that photo for whatever reason. Except upon his death; then he decided to part with it.

Sherlock starred at the photo and thought about the row he and John had had. He could hardly believe the way that things had turned out. John just couldn't seem to understand that he had done what was necessary. He couldn't have let him in on what was going on; it was for his safety, his protection. Sherlock had been hunting men trained to kill John; if there was even the slightest chance that John knowing about his work would result in him being killed Sherlock wasn't going to take it. That's why it had taken him this long to get here; he'd had to make for certain that they were all gone; that everyone tied to Moriarty was gone. Though he tried to explain this to John he didn't seem to get it and kept getting upset.

Sherlock could now see that he had underestimated how much John would be affected. He hadn't believed what Sherlock had told him on that building and just as he feared, he was harder for John because of that. He didn't quite understand the level of care that John was putting into this situation but even he had enough knowledge of human emotions to see that John was greatly hurt.

The words passed between him and John came to his mind. He tried, unsuccessfully to put them out of his mind. That was the annoying thing with being around John; he often made his thoughts confused and got him off track from where he needed to be. His _emotions _affected Sherlock, no matter how much he tried to deny it. When John said he wanted Sherlock to leave he had actually felt…._hurt_.

He needed a case soon; he needed something else to think about. His mind truly was deteriorating to be getting so lost in in these _emotions _.

John didn't return for the rest of the night. It was late, more like early morning than late night, with pink light beginning to shine through the window, when Sherlock decided to finally rest. The couch seemed uninviting; after all the strange places he had had slept in the past few years what he really wanted a bed to sleep in. Sherlock walked to John's room and looked inside. Since John wasn't here, surely he wouldn't mind him using his bed this one time. Sherlock fell upon the bed and pulled the covers over his head. The covers smelled like John and he felt content.

The next day John rubbed his eyes as he sat at his desk. He was finished seeing patients for the day and only needed to finish up his paperwork. Everyone else had just left for the day because, as usual, John had overbooked himself with patients. John tried to wipe the fuzziness out of his eyes but it just didn't seem to want to leave. He hadn't gotten that good of sleep on Stamford's couch last night. After the fight with Sherlock he hadn't wanted to go home and so he'd went over there. This, combined with the night before, caused Stamford to give him a worried gaze and ask incessantly what had happened and was he ok but John held firm and didn't give him any information. He'd mumbled just information to appease Stamford and then quickly went to sleep. Or rather he tried to sleep; he faked for a long time so Stamford would leave him alone but it took a long time before he actually fell asleep. Annoyingly enough, he had the old standby nightmare; Sherlock falling, the blood, the anguish…. It really was annoying considering he now knew it was all a big sham.

As John finished the paperwork he tried to decide what to do when he finally got done. He knew he had to go home; he couldn't keep avoiding his own flat, that was ridiculous. But still the thought was tempting. He didn't know what to say to Sherlock or what to do, but he decided that he'd had enough of thinking about it for a while.

John picked up some dinner and then caught a cab home. When he stepped into his flat he found Sherlock sitting in a chair- his chair- in the living room reading a thick book. When John stepped into the room Sherlock glanced at him with one eye over the top of his book but then quickly looked back down at his book. He didn't say anything; fine, John mused, I'm not going to be the first one to say anything.

John dropped the bag of food on the kitchen table and then went to the bedroom to change out of his two day old clothes. He didn't feel satisfied with just a change and so decided to take a shower too. Having the warm water wash over him loosened his tense muscles and made him relax- a little.

Feeling much better physically and mentally John walked to the kitchen to grab his dinner. What he found in the kitchen was a surprise; Sherlock had helped himself to John's food.

"Sherlock…." John sighed in an "I-cant-believe-you" way as his stomach gave a big growl. He was prepared to get really worked up ( after all, he had just bought enough food for him) when he looked at Sherlock; really looked at him.

To say that Sherlock wasn't a big eater was an understatement; often John wondered how he consumed enough calories to stay healthy. And yet right now Sherlock was eating his food as if he was….starving? John had never seen Sherlock eat like that before. Now that Sherlock had some of his own clothes on John was able to notice his weight; Sherlock had always been thin but now he looked almost gaunt. His own clothes, which had always been tailored to fit him, hung loosely on him. With a sudden pang of sympathy John wondered what Sherlock had been through all this time that he had been gone.

Sherlock looked at John " Problem, John?" he asked. That was Sherlock; to not even mention John being gone for a day, to be completely clueless that the food wasn't for him because of course everything was about him.

"No, nothing at all" John said. He brushed off the thought of saying something and went to the cupboards to search for something to eat; the prospects were dismal. After giving up he went into the living room and ordered take away. He turned on the television and flipped idly through the channels, not even paying attention to what was on the programs. After a while Sherlock emerged from the kitchen and sat on the couch facing John. He was perched on his chair and his eyes had that bright look in them he got when he had an idea. He placed his hands together and said, " I think 9 o'clock will be a good time, what do you think?"

"Good time for what?" John asked as he continued to flip through the channels.

"To go to the station tomorrow of course" Sherlock said, " Talk to Lestrade"

At this John turned the television off. "What?" he asked.

"Go to the station, get all this business cleared up" Sherlock said, " I am sure no doubt that they will have their misgivings and there will be some legal fall out from this, but I am sure that once we explain all this to them-"

"We?" John asked " Why would I be going?"

" What do you mean John?" Sherlock asked, " Of course you would be going because we are a consulting team."

"Well, I have work tomorrow Sherlock" John said, slightly annoyed " I can't just call in because you want me to go to the station with you."

"So, I take that as a no? You are not going to talk to Lestrade with me?" Sherlock asked.

" Well of course not Sherlock, that is what I just said," John said. He was trying to keep calm but Sherlock was annoying him. He hadn't seen or talked to anyone from the station since Sherlock's 'death'. He had no way to know how they were going to react to him coming back. At any rate they probably weren't just going to immediately start calling him in on cases and John wasn't just going to throw away all his hard work for nothing.

Sherlock assumed one of his 'pouty' faces or at least what passed on Sherlock as pouty.

"Fine" he said as he stood from his seat "I'll go by myself. I do not need your help anyway"

"Of course you don't" John mumbled, more to himself than Sherlock.

Sherlock grabbed his coat and threw it on hurriedly. He walked to the door, said, " I am going out" quickly before slamming the front door. John got from the couch, went to his room and slammed the door behind him loudly, though the sound just echoed through the empty flat


	10. Chapter 10

John spent the rest of the night in his room. He spent the greater part of a few hours trying to focus on a book though he kept getting distracted. At one point he heard the flat door open and knew Sherlock had returned though he didn't hear much else noise after he entered. Sherlock often didn't make a lot of noise and this could either be a good or a bad thing; right now John just chose to ignore it. He lay back on his bed and tried to finish the rest of the book.

When he had finally finished, taking about double the amount of time it should have, he decided to go to the kitchen for some tea. When he walked out of his room and into the living room on the way to the kitchen, he paused. Sherlock was in the living room changing from one shirt to another. When he spotted John standing in the doorway he turned his back quickly as he struggled to quickly do up the buttons, but it hadn't been quick enough for John to not only see the flush of red on his face but the injuries that dotted his chest. Across Sherlock's chest he had three large red scars. They weren't so fresh that they should still be covered with bandages, but new enough that John knew Sherlock had gotten them recently. The scars were deep and the cuts had obviously been made quickly and done by someone who was not a surgeon. John was sure that the cuts had been made to remove bullets. John could only guess that the situation had been horrible.

Suddenly, John felt something that he hadn't felt since Sherlock had returned; guilt. Ever since Sherlock had returned John had felt the need to be angry with Sherlock; because he had left him, because he had lied to him, because he didn't feel the same thing that John did. He hadn't taken one second to consider what Sherlock had been through. It was unreasonable on his part of expect some sort of emotional reaction on Sherlock's part; that simply wasn't who Sherlock was. But that didn't mean that Sherlock hadn't been to hell and back. It wasn't until today with the sight of Sherlock's ghastly weight loss and fresh bullet scars that John considered that he had been through something quite terrible. John didn't want to think about kind of situation had put Sherlock in a place where he'd had to have had bullets removed in an emergency someplace that wasn't a hospital. John knew that Sherlock had said that he had to get rid of Morarity's people, but he had never considered Sherlock had been in severe danger. That he had may have actually killed people. Suddenly his heart hurt for his friend.

"Must you stare at me?" Sherlock asked in an impatient voice as he pulled his dressing gown closed around him. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

John realized how long he must have stared Sherlock while thinking all this through. Considering he had walked in on Sherlock changing, he must be embarrassed; Sherlock was, after all, very modest. John averted his eyes. "Nothing, sorry" he mumbled. He quickly walked off to the kitchen. He made tea; two cups this time.

When John walked into the living room on the way to his own room, Sherlock was sitting on the couch staring out the window. The moon shone in through the window and landed on Sherlock's face. John didn't see the careful gaze of his friend observing or the distant gaze he normally had when deep in thought. His eyes moved around almost as if searching for something; almost as if he were lost.

John placed the extra tea cup on the table in front of Sherlock though he still continued to look out the window.

"Listen, uh…." John cleared his throat uncomfortably " Sherlock, I know I've been acting weird lately, and um, I'm sorry. This is all very strange for me, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you"

Sherlock was still not looking at John which only increased his feeling like an idiot, but John continued anyway. " Uh, by the way" he said, " I am glad that you are back. I know that it didn't seem that way, with me punching you and all, but I am." John really wished Sherlock would say something or at least look at him. On second thought, maybe it was easier this way. " And, I just wanted to let you know if you'd like to talk about it, you can"

Finally Sherlock turned away from the window and looked at John " Talk about what?" he asked.

"Anything really" John said, " I know a lot must have happened to you since Moriarty and all"

"Why would I need to talk to you?" Sherlock asked. He asked it like it was strangest thing to actually want to talk to someone. Which for Sherlock, maybe it was. John wanted to push him, to mention his scars. But if he knew one thing about Sherlock it was that if you pushed him he always retreated further into himself. And that was the last thing he wanted.

"Don't know" John said, " Just offering" he took his tea and turned away towards his room, leaving Sherlock in his thoughts; whatever they were.

…

Over the next few weeks John and Sherlock fell into a somewhat 'normal' pattern of living. John continued his work at the doctor's office and Sherlock began to do some consulting with the police, though it was still somewhat 'secretive' since the fallout was still blowing over. John stood his ground and didn't go with Sherlock to the station the day that he went back, though he often kicked himself for not doing it. He could picture in his head Sherlock strolling in like he owned the place, not noticing people spilling their coffee and staring open mouthed at him as he walked by. Lestrade was surprised, of course but more than anything he was eager to have Sherlock back. Because of how things had ended, with Sherlock's arrest on suspicion of kidnaping and then escaping with a stolen gun pointed at John, most were not happy to see Sherlock. Lestrade assured Sherlock that he was doing his best to clear things up, but for the time being Sherlock was doing his best to consult from a distance.

While things were falling more into a normal pattern, John still didn't feel great about how things were. Things weren't how they had been at all before, and while he and Sherlock were friendly with each other, they still lived with each other like strangers. They didn't talk much and their activities often put them at home at different times. The times that Sherlock was at home he had his nose in a book or his eye at a microscope. John was glad for this; he could see the light return to Sherlock's eyes as he found purpose and meaning in a case. Sherlock was only really happy when he was working on a case and John could see that Sherlock was returning to a place where he was happy again.

But things still weren't normal, for John or Sherlock. John didn't fee completely himself. He had cleaned up the flat and was taking better care of himself, keeping up on the cleaning and laundry. He was eating more and drinking less but he still wasn't back to his normal habits. His limp was gone for the most part but some days it still bothered him and he would rely on the cane if Sherlock wasn't around to see it. The flat was crowded and John knew it wasn't fair for Sherlock to have no place of his own but John didn't know how to address this issue yet. John was finding that his work, which had always been a distraction, was now not holding the same appeal it once had. When John would come home and see Sherlock working on something, he felt the pull to ask him about it, felt his interest in the case piquing. But Sherlock didn't really talk to John about his new cases or anything really, and so John didn't ask. When Sherlock would fly out the door in a mad dash John would feel that same excited pull that he felt when he first watched Sherlock dash out the door when going to see the pink lady in their very first case, but Sherlock never asked him to come now.

And while John was assured that Sherlock was feeling better and seemed happier, he knew that Sherlock wasn't himself either. The fact that Sherlock hardly ever talked was not normal; Sherlock was not a social person but he did like to share his deductions and now he rarely talked, even about a case. He was still skinny and not eating enough to compensate for his apparent weight loss (he supposed Sherlock stealing his food was an isolated incident) and he seemed to be sleeping more than usual. That wasn't to say that he was sleeping a lot; he was sleeping everyday but it still might only be for an hour a day. But John still found it strange; Sherlock never slept during a case. He might go for days at a time without sleeping and then crash when a case was over. He was also doing things that just seemed…..strange. Sometimes John would come home and find Sherlock lying on the floor staring straight up at the ceiling. When asked when he was doing Sherlock would simply say, "Leave me alone". When John left him Sherlock might stay this way for another hour or two before getting up. Nearly every day John would wake up to hear Sherlock playing his violin; Sherlock playing his violin was nothing strange but it was strange that he was playing it so often. It was always a sad, depressing, dark tune and when John would emerge from his room Sherlock would turn around and snap at him, "Thanks for interrupting me". Sherlock had also taken to making a habit of taking walks in the evening, though always returning before dark. He would often return just before nightfall, sometimes out of a breath and somewhat panicked it seemed. John wasn't sure why he was acting so strange, but he knew something was amiss.

One night, a few weeks after Sherlock's return, John awoke in the middle of the night. Strange enough he had not awoken due to a nightmare. John rolled over and pulled the covers up to his chin, planning to immediately go back to sleep when he heard Sherlock's voice from the living room calling his name. He would have dismissed it (Sherlock often bugged him in the middle of the night) except that it sounded strange. Sherlock's voice didn't sound natural; he sounded upset, panicked.

"John!" Sherlock's voice called again. "John!"

"Coming, Sherlock!" John called as he threw back the covers and went to the door.

**Maybe Sherlock's going to show some of his humanity? Comments are much appreciated! **


	11. Chapter 11

When he opened the door and went into the living room he found Sherlock on the couch. John rushed over to him, " Sherlock ,what's wrong?" he asked before he realized that Sherlock was asleep. He was lying on his side, with his legs tucked up to his chest. His eyes were clenched closed and pain was on his face. He was sweating, and John could hear a small sound coming from him; if he didn't know better, he would say he was whimpering.

Sherlock was having a nightmare.

"John…." Sherlock called out in his dream softly. John couldn't stand to see Sherlock suffering in his nightmare any longer and he shook him gently awake. Despite the fact that John shook him as easily as he could, Sherlock still jumped nearly out of his skin. He sat straight up and grabbed John's hand with a vice grip as if he was a foe. His eyes were wide and alert, searching.

" Its, okay, Sherlock" John said, " It was just a nightmare"

Sherlock's panic dissolved immediately and he let go of John's arm. " A nightmare? Do not be ridiculous John, I don't have _nightmares. _Why did you wake me?"

"Because you were calling out my name" John said, " You seemed upset….because you _were _having a nightmare"

John watched as Sherlock averted his eyes and as his ears turned a slightly darker shade. "Ridiculous, you were hearing things" he mumbled. He got up from the couch and walked to the window, staring out onto the street. He was trying to ignore John, but John wasn't going to make it that easy.

"You know its okay, right?" John said. " Its okay to be affected. Its okay to be upset, to feel different; I don't know what all happened to you while you were gone but I can tell it has affected you"

Sherlock continued to stare out the window " Is this the part where I'm supposed to talk about my _feelings _John?" he asked sarcastically.

John bit back a mean response. " This is the part where you're supposed to say _something, _Sherlock" he said. " I feel like you're a total stranger. You never talk to me about anything! You don't have to talk to about your feelings but you do need to talk about something! You were gone for three bloody years! You tell me you hunted down Morairty's men, I don't know if this means that you killed them or what but I do know that you went through a lot and I just wish that you'd talk about it. Half the time you walk around here happy and absorbed in your cases, the other half you're walking around like you're a zombie or something. Staring off into space, mumbling, playing depressing music. You once told me that you weren't a hero….you're human Sherlock ,act like it!"

"I don't know what you want from me, John" Sherlock said as he stared out the window. He was refusing to look at John; he was shutting down.

"I want you to tell me how you got those scars, the ones on your chest" John said, " We both know I saw them. How'd you get them? How did you get shot?"

"I don't know what you're talking about" Sherlock said vacantly. Zombie mode.

John was infuriated. It was so difficult for him to deal with Sherlock when he was like this. "You're going to deny that you have three big gapping scars on your chest?" John said.

Sherlock stared out the window. Nothing. He was in full shut down mode, John had seen it before. John shook his head. " You're bloody impossible, you know that?" he said. " I don't even know who you are anymore"

"Of course you do" Sherlock said, " I'm Sherlock, you're John. We know exactly who we are"

"Except that we don't Sherlock" John walked over to the window. Sherlock refused to look at him, at least directly. John could see Sherlock look at him occasionally out of the corner of his eye. At least he had his attention somewhat. "We don't know who we are…well at least I don't. Maybe you can pretend you have it all figured out but I don't. My world is upside down…..you were gone for three years and it was HARD….really hard. Then you show up and it's still hard. To figure out who you are now because it sure isn't the same person who left three years ago. I know its tough for you….its hard for me and I can only imagine that you went through a lot more hell than I did."

Sherlock stared out the window. John tried to read his face but there was nothing there. He was emotionless, or at least appeared to be.

"Please don't do this" John said, trying to control the slight desperation in his voice. " Don't shut me out. God, Sherlock. I missed you, I…..still miss you" Emotion was thick in his voice and he hated himself for it. Sherlock didn't say anything but he knew he could hear it. It was hard to miss.

"Say something Sherlock" John almost pleaded. He felt very much like he was here with his heart on his sleeve and he just wanted Sherlock to say something. His therapist had once observed that he had trust issues and it hit the nail right on the head. John didn't trust people; he had been hurt too many times in the past and he learned to keep people at an arms distance; except Sherlock. From day one he had placed his trust in Sherlock. He wasn't sure why he had trusted him so from the very beginning but he had. But sharing his feelings with Sherlock was hard; he was completely vulnerable.

Sherlock finally turned away from the window and faced John. " Why John?" he asked " Why would I say something? So I can handle this whole thing as poorly as you?"

John was confused. " I'm sorry, I don't follow?" he said.

"Look at you John" Sherlock said motioning to him. " You're a mess. You have been a mess since I've shown up. Hiding behind the bottle, starving yourself, hardly taking care of yourself. Look how emotional you are now- it isn't necessary. Why would I want to handle this like you? If you expect me to fall apart like you have then you can just give up now. I'm not weak like that"

Sherlock's words cut John down as deeply as any words ever had. John had been transparent with Sherlock, admitted he was struggling, and admitted it was hard, admitted he had missed him all this time and Sherlock had just…..been Sherlock. Cold, calculating, completely void of feelings. John wished Sherlock would have sucker punched him; it would have hurt a thousand times less than his words. Not only did he not admit that he missed John, but he called John _weak. _Weak for feeling, weak for caring.

"Sherlock" John said, biting back the emotion that threatened to choke him " You're bloody horrible. You're just terrible. You can't even be human for a second" he looked up at Sherlock, in those ice blue eyes " I've always defended you…..always stood up for you. People think you're horrible for the terrible things that you always say and I've always stepped in and defended you"

He had always thought he knew Sherlock, the real Sherlock. People dismissed him as a total jerk because they didn't know him, John thought. John knew that deep down inside Sherlock was a soul, a heart that felt things. Or so he thought.

"I am sorry to have disappointed you John" Sherlock said though he didn't sound sorry at all. " I simply make observations, I simply tell the truth. Did I say something that wasn't true?"

John looked down at the ground and shook his head "No Sherlock, you didn't say anything that wasn't true" he could feel anger and hurt well up inside him until it was almost unbearable. He looked back up at Sherlock; if he was going to say this he was going to make Sherlock look at him. " It was all true Sherlock. I'm sure you don't need me to confirm it because you are so brilliant you hardly need me to tell you anything. You're right, I AM a mess. You're right about it all; when you left I stopped eating, stopped taking care of myself, did only the things I needed to to keep going on surviving. Because that's all it was, surviving. Not living, no certainly not living. You're right about the drinking too; as much as I hated it, I was turning out just like Harry. It was the only thing that could remotely get me through the day. But I'm sure you knew that too; I'm sure that night Stamford brought me home in a drunken stupor you knew, you just knew because you're so superior, that I had drunk myself practically unconscious- over YOU!" John's voice had gradually risen until it was a full scale shout now. If the neighbors hadn't been awake, they were now " I've been torturing myself over YOU! And why? I have no idea….I've no idea why I put up with your shit. But no more….."

Sherlock's face wasn't cold anymore but rather confused. He didn't seem moved, but John had done something he wasn't sure was possible; he had made Sherlock Holmes speechless. Sherlock made noises as if starting to say words, but he kept stopping. John didn't want to be around when he regained his voice; he couldn't bear to hear Sherlock's deductions on John's rant.

Before Sherlock could say anything, John turned around and left the flat, leaving a very confused Sherlock still standing by the window.

…

John wasn't sure how long he walked before he realized how terribly stupid it was that he was yet again driven out of his own home because of Sherlock. It was a beautiful night, with the full moon shinning and the stars out clearly, but it was cold and John quickly regretted running out in his pyjamas. It wasn't long before he was shivering; he wasn't sure how much shivering was from true cold and how much was from anger.

John didn't know what to think anymore. He had always thought he knew Sherlock and now he wasn't so sure. Even in the beginning John felt he somehow saw something that no one else did; everyone around Sherlock insulted him and mocked him. No one seemed to notice how amazing he could be. John had found this strange at the time, but now he wondered if the reason people acted this way was because they were just tired of Sherlock's attitude and ego. If they were, John could understand now.

John could still hear Sherlock's panicked cries in his ears from his dream and part of John tried to convince him that there must still be the old Sherlock in there, but John told that part of himself that it was wrong. John walked faster down the street; the faster he walked, the easier it got to ignore the voices.

John didn't know how long it took, walking down the street at such a fast speed that his legs burned, but at some point the thickness in his throat turned into a full blown sob. It escaped his throat and he choked. No tears came; his body just shook in waves as his emotion took him over. It was somehow worse that he couldn't get any tears out; it was almost as if the sobbing didn't lessen the pain any like regular crying might. John knew that he should stop walking, but in the dead of the night with his body shaking, he couldn't stop.

_Stupid, awful Sherlock, _John got lost in his own thoughts, _I'm not putting myself in this position anymore. Maybe me and Sherlock just need space….yes, I definitely need to get away from Sherlock." _Another sob escaped his throat, except that this one was not completely dry. Moisture came to his eyes. "_Except that I don't want to be away from Sherlock….I don't- _

John was so upset that he didn't notice that he wandered into the street. He was so upset that he didn't see the car coming…..


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock paced the living room floor. His bare feet were chilled on the floor and his mind whirled. He knew he should go back to sleep but he knew that was out of the question for quite some time now. Back and forth, back and forth…_John didn't have to storm out of here like a child, he should have stayed. Why does he have to be so immature, so irrational, so emotional…. _

Sherlock knew that he must have upset John; that was why he had run out of the house, why he had called him names. He hadn't meant to upset John, really he hadn't. He never intentionally tried to upset John. It did seem that he made John upset a lot these days but he wasn't doing it on purpose. John was just so ….._emotional. _

He didn't know what to make of what John had said; that he had been so bothered by Sherlock's leaving that he stopped eating, caring for himself and had taken up drinking. Why did he _care _so much? He had noticed in the past that John seemed to care an awful lot about things that he shouldn't; things that other people did and said to him bothered John deeply and he couldn't figure out why. They weren't saying anything about him, so why was he upset? And while he had assumed that John would be affected by his absence he had no idea that John would seem to fall apart at the seams because of it. He really didn't understand it.

He wasn't going to say anything to John about any of it. Obviously, he wasn't going to bring it up. Feelings were so….messy, unpredictable. But John wouldn't leave him alone after he'd found him having a ….._nightmare. _

Sherlock stopped pacing and plopped down heavily on the couch. He pulled his legs up to his chest and stared at the chair across from him, John's chair. Nightmares, they were ridiculous things. He didn't have nightmares, well, at least he hadn't until a few months ago. When he slept, nothing happened. Dreams were for _ordinary _people; it helped their slow minds muddle through the events of the day. Since Sherlock's mind was not slow, he didn't need that. Except that it was starting to. Even worse was that in his sleeping state he was starting to not only relive things, but he was starting to relive…..unpleasant events. The events that had occurred after Moriarty were done with now and so he had no idea why he kept dreaming of them. It didn't do any good; in fact it caused him to think about these things during waking hours which was unacceptable. That part of his life was gone now; he was ready to move on. His subconscious, it seemed, was not, and that was extremely frustrating.

He hadn't wanted to snap at John but he just wouldn't leave it alone. He had guessed correctly that he was having a nightmare and had even accused him of calling out his name in his sleep. He'd felt very uncomfortable at that thought; his ears had felt hot and he hadn't wanted to look at John. It was not a pleasant feeling and he wanted to get away from it. Which, he would have been able to do had John simply dropped the subject. But he hadn't; he kept pressing the issue and that uncomfortable feeling had increased until he started talking and once he had stopped talking John was looking at him in that horrible way. It wasn't a look that Sherlock had ever seen on John's face.

As Sherlock thought about this, he heard a small buzzing sound on the table and found John's phone. John had left it behind in his haste and now someone was calling him. Strange, most people didn't call others at 4 am, usually only if it was an….

Sherlock picked up the phone and answered it right before it stopped ringing. " Hello?"

"Hello, is this John Watson's residence?" asked a quiet female voice on the other end of the line. Receptionist, single, early twenties….Sherlock forced himself away from his deductions to answer " Yes, this is his phone. He left it at his flat. Who is this?"

Only Sherlock didn't have to ask who it was. The woman's voice and the background noise on the other end of the line, the late call, was enough to tell Sherlock all he needed to know. " I'm looking for an emergency contact for Mr. Watson. He doesn't seem to have one listed in our records but this is his only phone number listed. Who am I speaking to?"

"Emergency?" Sherlock felt funny. Suddenly it was hard to get enough air. " What emergency?"

"Sir, who am I speaking to? I can't just give out personal information to anyone"

"I'm Sherlock his f-…..his brother" Sherlock felt it was hard to think correctly at this moment but he had enough foresight to know that the hospital wasn't going to tell him anything if they knew he was just his friend. "Please, tell me what's happened. Is John okay?"

"Sir, if you are his brother why does he not have you listed on his information?"

Sherlock pulled at his hair with his free hand. This woman was infuriating; couldn't she see the severity of this? " I was missing for several years and he thought I was dead. I've only recently come back into his life." He knew that it sounded made up but his mind was not working at its full mental capacity right now. He couldn't think of anything more likely. " Please, ma'am I'm….the only family he's got."

He heard a long pause on the other end of the phone but what he said must have worked for the woman said, " Mr. Watson has been in an accident. He's in critical condition."

That feeling of difficult breathing was getting worse. It felt as if a car was on top of his chest. " What…..What happened?" he managed to croak out through the quick breathes.

" He was hit by a cab" the woman said, " the cab driver said he seemed distracted and walked out into the street just in front of him. He didn't have time to stop."

"I'll…..I'll, be there….very soon. Do tell him please" Sherlock said.

"Sir, he's not awake. He's in surgery right now. But it would be good for you to be here when he wakes. He….."

But Sherlock didn't hear anymore….all he heard was the sound of the blood in his own ears and the sound of the phone as it hit the floor.

…

The cab ride was taking infuriatingly long. Sherlock felt the need to be up and moving and the back seat of the cab was entirely too constricting. He drummed his fingers on his knees, he shifted his legs, but he simply couldn't get comfortable. His body desired to be moving; even his heart seemed to be not moving fast enough. Sherlock prodded the cabbie to go faster but after receiving a very rude reply, he simply sat back and tried to manage through the long ride.

John was injured, very badly injured. He had been hit by a car and was now in surgery. Those were the facts, and that was all that he knew right now. It was not nearly enough information to satisfy him.

The drive was much too long….too much time to sit and think about things that he didn't know to be fact. What was worse he kept getting this nagging thought that wouldn't leave; the thought that John shouldn't have even been in the street, shouldn't have been taking a walk that late at night, he should have been asleep in his bed safely only he wasn't because…..

Because of Sherlock.

Because he had awoken him.

Because they had an argument and Sherlock had insulted him.

If he hadn't insulted John he wouldn't have run out of the flat the way that he had. And if he hadn't run out of the flat upset like he had, he wouldn't have been in the street. He wouldn't have been hit by the car. He wouldn't be in the hospital now.

Sherlock's stomach twisted and churned. He felt either the strong urge for the toilet or to be sick, he wasn't sure which. His palms were sweating and his heart beat against his chest with strong force. John wouldn't be hurt now if they hadn't argued. It was….his fault that John was hurt. That he might be…..

No. Sherlock refused to let his mind go down that route. He didn't have the facts and until he did he couldn't make such strong judgments. John was alive; until he had proof otherwise. To think otherwise was….too much.

After what seemed like an eternity the cab pulled up next to the hospital. Sherlock quickly paid the cabbie and rushed into the hospital doors. Once he got inside his body did all sorts of other odd things. The strange feeling in is stomach increased and his sweaty palms turned into sweaty everything; his coat suddenly felt suffocating. His legs felt kind of shaky, like he couldn't stand properly. What was happening to him? He couldn't deal with all this right now; John needed him.

A woman at the front desk took notice of his distracted state and said, " Sir, can I help you?"

Sherlock turned around and looked at the woman. He walked to the desk on his shaky legs and said, " Um, yes….I'm looking for John Watson. They called me earlier and said he was in an accident and that he was in surgery."

"And you are?"

"Sherlock, his brother" When Sherlock had told the woman on the phone, he had been making a conscious effort to lie. This time it just slipped out easily.

The woman tapped on her key board for a few moments and then looked up at Sherlock. " He's in intensive care. They've just brought him out of surgery" She gave Sherlock his room number and directions on how to get there. Sherlock's legs couldn't carry him fast enough through the maze of the hospital.

Normally Sherlock detested the atmosphere of hospitals. They were hard to maneuver around, they full of contagious sick people, everyone was depressed, full of _feelings._ They were dull places. But now he didn't even notice these things. strangely, he hardly noticed anything except his need to get to John's room.

When he reached the correct door he burst in without a thought to what he would find. If he had known, he might have waited a moment before coming in. He wasn't prepared for the sight of John. His flat mate was hardly recognizable. He lay in the bed, surrounded by all manner of machines, tubes going into his arms, his mouth. The machines were breathing for him, he realized in horror. He couldn't even breathe for himself. His leg was elevated and in a cast, as well as one of his arms. But what appeared to be the worst was his head. However John had been hit, it had obviously been mostly on the right side of his face. It was covered in ghastly bruises, a mess of purple and blue. All of his hair had been shaved off and a scar ran up the side of his head.

In the next few hours several doctors talked to him. What they had had to say was not good and though he could tell from his deductions that they knew what they were talking about, he didn't want to believe them. John had had surgery on his brain of all things. His head had taken most of the impact of the hit and hit had caused a fractured skull and bleeding on the brain. They had done all they could (so they said) but John was in a coma. They didn't know if he would wake up, and if he did, they couldn't say what state his mind would be in.

It was all so much information, so much dark information. And so many different people kept coming in and out and they wouldn't leave him alone. Every time he tried to lean in to get a closer look at John, some nurse would come in to check something and shoo him away. After about two hours of these charades, Sherlock couldn't take it anymore.

"Cant you do this later!?" he snapped at a young nurse when she came in to check John's vitals. " You've been in here bloody 6 times!"

The woman was visibly taken aback. Sherlock observed she was young, 23 at most, likely just out of nursing school. She had a soft personality and was offended easily. Her face fell quickly, " Sorry sir, but he must have his vitals checked often. It's imperative that they are checked often to monitor his condition." But Sherlock noticed that she checked much quicker this time and when she left she closed the door behind her, muttering a "Sorry"

When she closed the door, Sherlock rushed over to John. It didn't even look like John. Sure he would always be able to tell no matter what John looked like, but to the casual observer they wouldn't be able to tell it was John anymore. His face was so bruised and swollen. The scar on his head seemed very large and Sherlock wondered how competent his surgeon had been. After all, they said that John might not wake up.

With no warning, Sherlock's legs buckled out from under him and crashed to floor heavily on his backside. He could try to get up again, and probably should. But he didn't, he just sat there. His body, which had seemed stifling hot before, now shivered and he pulled his coat closer around him. He pulled his collar up around his face; perhaps he could get lost in his coat and forget where he was. His stomach hurt like it never had before but it wasn't like he needed to the restroom; it was more like just a searing, burning, awful pain that nothing could fix. As he sat on the floor he pulled his legs up and rested his face on his knees.

Now he had the facts and he didn't want them. John was hurt, seriously. John was in a coma. He might not wake up; if he did wake up he might not even be the same. There was a good chance that he could die. He was here because he had been stupidly running around throughout the night. He had been stupidly running around because he was mad at Sherlock. It was Sherlock's fault he was here.

And with that the wave of facts crashed down on Sherlock. When they hit his mind fully, he could feel his eyes prickle and could feel his lip quiver in response. He bit down on it to keep it still; he was not going to do this. He bit his lip until it hurt and clenched his eyes shut. He was in control and he was not going to choose to cry. He was in control, he was in control…..

Only he wasn't in control. There were no facts that would help John. He could perform no experiment or test to help him. He couldn't study the facts and come up with a solution that would heal John. He could do….nothing. Nothing. Nothing he could do would be able to help John. He was…..helpless.

Sherlock's breath came out quickly and he realized that he had been holding it as he bit his lip. When he let go his lip quivered again and he didn't try to stop it. The burning in his eyes became unbearable and despite clenching his eyes shut, moisture finally managed to make its way out.


	13. Chapter 13

As usual reviews are very much appreciated!

Sounds,_ noises, everything seemed so loud. He tried to place the sounds around him, what they were, but he couldn't. Beeps, crashes, voices, disconnected voices making words he couldn't understand. Sometimes it would get so loud! He could feel nothing but a pounding, throbbing pain coming from…..somewhere. The pain took up all of the physical parts that he could feel. Pain, throbbing, LOUD! LOUD! LOUD NOISES! Make it stop! It made the pain worse! Would it ever stop?! He wanted to say something, but he couldn't manage to….he had a voice, didn't he? Or at least he had had one. But it didn't work now…..disconnected words came to him "Stop" "Go" "Quiet" but he couldn't form them into anything of meaning. A poke, a prod, rough hands, cold hands, STOP! Things touched him, things hurt him but he couldn't see them. He tried to move to make them stop but he couldn't. It seemed that this went on endlessly, touching and pinching and hurting, POUNDING PAIN! People talking, laughing, but he couldn't figure out what was so funny….Glimpses on colours, red, purple, blue, then…..NOTHING. Endless blackness….the colours came sometimes but blackness took over. It hurt, it was so black. Not hurting like the pounding pain he felt, but a different kind of pain, a pain that made him want to die…..maybe he was already dead? No, he didn't think so. You don't feel pain in death right? No, so he must still be alive….PAIN, LOUD NOISES, DARKNESS! If he wasn't dead already he wanted to be dead. This world he was in was horrible. Maybe he was in Hell…..it sure felt like it…..His body shook in a sensation….what was that? Cold? Yes, he was cold. Surely that meant he wasn't in Hell….but the cold added to the noise and the darkness and pain was too much! END IT!_

_Slowly, something changed. The shaking stopped a little as he felt something come over the parts that he could feel. Thick, warm, comfortable…something….GOOD. He wanted to wrap all of himself in this feeling. It made the cold stop and it felt….and smelled familiar. This was something that he had felt before, but what? He didn't know, but whatever it was, it was GOOD. _

_A voice….but this one was different. It wasn't loud, it wasn't harsh like the others, but soft…..and he was SURE it was talking TO him. The other voices didn't talk to him, they talked around him. This voice was GOOD too….it talked to him for a long time. When the voice talked….the darkness went away. As long as the voice was talking, he couldn't go back into the dark place. The pounding was still there, it never went away, but when the voice talked it didn't hurt as much. When the voice stopped, things got dark and he felt that other kind of pain. He wanted to reach out to it and make it stay….but he couldn't do that. He tried to understand what the voice was actually SAYING….he knew that words should have meaning, but even with this voice they didn't. But it didn't matter really, if he could understand it….it was still GOOD. _

_After some time with the voice he could see another colour….this was one he hadn't seen yet. It wasn't dark colour, but rather a bright colour. It kind of hurt his eyes…but it too was GOOD. There was the voice again! And he could hear the voice was making a word he could understand…. "John" it said. This was a word! But what did it mean? He wasn't sure but it was familiar. "John" it called again. Yes, that word definitely meant something! The voice kept saying that word and try as he might he couldn't figure out what it meant! But every time that the voice spoke the bright colour kept getting brighter…._

_Then the voice stopped again! He reached out in desperation to make the voice keep talking but it was gone! This was not good….he reached out….light getting brighter….brighter….until…_

The light burned his eyes. He opened them only to close them again. He opened them again and tried to figure out what was going on, where he was. His head pounded so much he just wanted to close his eyes and crawl under the covers but something wasn't right and he had to figure out what was going on. He opened his eyes but all he could see was bright, floresant lights. He tried to move his head around and see what was going but the movement brought a wave of horrible pain and he called out involuntarily.

"Oh, my!" a female voice called out from somewhere in the room. He tried to find where it was coming from but everything hurt so much he couldn't. " You're awake"

Suddenly he could see the voice that had made the noise. A young nurse stood beside him and looked down at him. John tried to speak to her, ask what was going on, but when he tried to speak his voice just croaked. The nurse rushed away from him quickly and then came back, putting a cup to his lips. He hadn't realized how much his throat was burning until the cool water reached it. He guzzled it down until he had finished what was in it. When the moved back John moved his arms in an attempt to push himself in a sitting position, but his arms just fell back helplessly. "Oh, don't try to strain yourself, sweetie" she said. " You've been through quite an ordeal!" John watched as the nurse used a button on the bed to move it into a sitting position so that John could finally take in his surroundings. He looked around at the white, sterile room; hospital. He looked to the nurse sitting beside him. She was short, tiny, with graying hair and her voice was kind. She was the grandmotherly type that one generally wants when in the hospital. John's head pounded like a sledge hammer was pounding on the inside. "H-How…..d…did….I….?" John croaked out. His voice sounded hoarse and unnatural, not like his voice. It hurt to speak; it hurt to do anything.

"How did you get here?" the nurse offered. " You had an accident, sweetie, do you remember anything?" She looked at him intently as if studying him. Why? Was something seriously wrong with him? He didn't remember coming to the hospital.

John tried to shake his head. Mistake. Needles of pain shot through his head and he closed his eyes. " n-n-no" he croaked "w-what happ-"

"You were out taking a walk and got hit by a cab" the nurse explained. " Hit your head very hard when you fell. Broke some other bones, but mostly your head was what took the impact. Fractured your skull which caused a lot of bleeding on your brain. They did surgery but we weren't sure that you were going to make it. You've been in a coma"

John didn't remember any of this. He tried to think but it was fuzzy. " How…..long….I've….been…g-gone?" it was still hard to talk but it was getting easier. The nurse offered him another cup of water and he took it.

"A little over two weeks" she said, " You don't remember the accident at all?"

John really tried to remember, but he couldn't. " No" his head hurt so much he just wanted to sleep. He touched the side of his head that hurt and felt a scar. He felt around his head and it was smooth….his hair was gone. Why? Oh, right , the surgery.

"Well, honey, can you tell me your name?" the nurse asked gently. "What's your name?"

He thought hard…it shouldn't be this hard should it? The nurse was watching him with a nervous expression. He should have thought of it by now….why couldn't he? He remembered a word….he'd heard it in the darkness….. "John" he said. Yes, that was it.

The nurse smiled at him. " Good. Last name?" she asked

John tried really hard, but this he could think of. He knew that wasn't good. He knew he had a last name, but he couldn't think of it. " I….don't…." he let his head fall back against the bed.

The nurse patted his arm "Its alright, I'm sure that it will come to you" she said. " Can you remember anything else? Age, birthday, address?"

John closed his eyes and looked around his mind, searching and searching but it was nothing but blackness and emptiness. He almost felt like crying. He couldn't remember anything. How could he not even remember his own birthday and age? It was terrifying. He didn't even know who he was.

"That's okay" the nurse said, " You're mind has been through a lot. Give it a little time to adjust" but John could tell by the look on her face that she thought that it wasn't good that he couldn't remember this very basic information.

John pulled the covers up closer to his chin and tried to find some comfort in them. It was warm and comforting and it smelled nice. Only, it wasn't a blanket at all. John looked it; it was a long back coat. John ran his fingers over it and then took in the smell of it. It was familiar….it made him feel like he could remember something. This wasn't his coat, that much he knew….it was….

"Sherlock" John croaked out, laying his head on the coat. "Sherlock"

The nurse's eyes lit up. "John?" she said.

"This coat….its Sherlock's" he said. "Sherlock's coat"

The nurse smiled at him. " Can you tell me something about Sherlock, John?" she asked.

John closed his eyes and thought. "I could write a book on him. He's my friend….we started out just as flatmates. My friend Stamford introduced us when I need a flatmate. What a flatmate he is! I'm surprised I've not killed him yet" John laughed. He wasn't quite sure where it was coming from. It was a long gone feeling but it made him feel good. " He's brilliant….bloody brilliant. Annoying, frustrating, arrogant too….but brilliant. He solves crimes, ones no one else can figure out. It's really amazing how he does it…..I help him with it….." Except that he didn't anymore….right? John stopped and thought for a long time. Something else was at the front of his brain and he tried to figure it out. John looked back down at the coat that was lying across him and he felt his mind jar. A flash of images came to mind; Sherlock standing on top of the hospital roof, then falling to the ground, blood….so much blood….

"Only we don't do that anymore" John said. "At least not me. Sherlock was…..missing for a long time. I thought he was gone….but then he came back. I have been so mad at him, that he abandoned me. It was so hard being without him and he just didn't even care….called me weak…."

The nurse watched John curiously as he spoke, her smile increasing with each thing that John remembered. John's head hurt so bad he just wanted to go back to sleep if only that would make it feel better. But he couldn't…..there was something else to remember. When said that Sherlock called him weak, it sparked a memory. Him and Sherlock arguing about him not caring, about him not talking about what had happened. John felt that this memory was important but he couldn't remember why. John sat and thought until he thought his head was explode…..

"The accident!" John blurted out suddenly.

"Yes?" the nurse asked, "Do you remember something about it?"

"I think me and Sherlock had a fight that night" John said, " Yes, I remember we really had a row. I left the flat….." John thought " I was walking….thinking about it. I wasn't paying attention and then suddenly something hit me hard…..that's the last thing I remember" John lay back against the bed. He felt exhausted but he was so glad that he was remembering part of his memories. He still couldn't think up some of the basic information that the nurse had asked, but he could remember something and that was good enough for him for right now.

"You're doing really good John" the nurse said, patting his arm "I'll go let the doctor know you are awake. He'll want to do some tests, but until he gets here, try to rest. You'll be very exhausted for a while."

John closed his eyes and felt himself drift off a little, but his eyes popped open just as the nurse was walking out the door. "Excuse me!" he called out

The nurse turned away from the door and faced John, "Yes?" she asked.

"Is there any way that someone can call Sherlock?" he asked. " Tell him I'm awake?"

The nurse smile. " He's here already" she said, "He never leaves" She walked to the side of John's bed and pulled back a privacy curtain that hung around the bed. In the corner of the room was Sherlock fast asleep sitting up in a chair. His clothes were ruffled and looked unkempt and around him lay piles of books. His head hung as if he had been awake one minuet and asleep the next. John didn't want to admit how happy he felt at the sight of him. "I think the two of you will work your differences out" the nurse said.

"Why do you say that?" John asked.

"You obviously care about him a lot and I know he cares for you." the nurse said. " You're right that he seems to be a little….difficult at times, but he has been here by your bed ever since they've brought you in. He's only left twice, for about an hour each time, to come back in clean clothes. But other than that he has been here. He just sits by your bed and reads to you. I think he was uncomfortable, sitting here with nothing to say, so when he left once he came back with the books. He never sleeps; after all this time he finally goes to sleep and it's when you actually wake up."

John looked at Sherlock and the collection of books around him; all of John's favorites. Books Sherlock would consider drivel and yet he had been reading them. There were a lot of books; how long had he been reading to him? John thought back to the dream state that he had just woken from, the voice that had brought back him back to consciousness. It was familiar but he didn't know who's it had been….was it possible….

John tried to fight the wave of extreme fatigue that passed over him but it was impossible. His eyes stung and his eyelids drooped until he didn't see anything more.

….

John woke to the sound of Sherlock's voice. When he opened his eyes Sherlock was sitting next to him and he held a book in his hand, reading it aloud to John. When John stirred, Sherlock looked up from the book. John looked up at Sherlock; John wasn't sure what he read in Sherlock's expression. Sherlock, as usual, was hard to read, but the corners of his mouth twitched up into a smile and John felt himself smile back. "Welcome back" Sherlock said, " The nurse told me that you had awoken, but I couldn't be sure until I saw it for myself." John noticed that Sherlock's fingers played with the pages of the book, flipping them back and forth. Was Sherlock Holmes actually fidgeting? " So….um, how do you feel?" he asked uncomfortably. John felt that what he was really asking was what did he remember.

"Well, I've got about the worst headache I've ever had" John said. He put his hand to the injured side of his head. "I suppose that I was out for awhile, huh?"

"Yes, quite some time" Sherlock said. " About two weeks. It was ages" he coughed uncomfortably. " Do you remember anything about what happened? About what happened that night?"

"well, I recall being hit by a car" John said, " And I definitely feel like I was hit by a car." John shifted positions in the bed and the movement caused considerable pain. When he groaned at the pain, Sherlock jumped up from his chair and hovered near him. "Are you okay?" he asked urgently.

John thought that that was strange. He thought that he saw worry and concern in Sherlock's eyes. When he considered what the nurse had told him and the genuine concern he saw in Sherlock's face right now, he considered that it was actually possible that he had been worried about him.

When John didn't immediately answer, Sherlock prodded again, " Are you alright? Do you need something?"

John waved a hand dismissively. " No, I'm just trying to move, but I guess it too much right now. I feel stiff as a rock, but I guess even if my leg wasn't broken it would still be hard to walk if I've really been out for two weeks."

"15 days, 3 hours to be precise" Sherlock said as he sat back down. That sounded a little more like the Sherlock he knew.

"Well, I'd believe it" John said. He rubbed his eyes; despite the fact that he had done nothing but sleep those past two weeks, he still felt uncomfortably sleepy. "Everything feels….off"

Sherlock stared at John and he could tell that he was trying to study him, to deduce exactly how he was doing. "Well, that shouldn't be a surprise. When you were hit by that car it broke your left leg and arm, fracturing several bones on that side of your body as well. And that wasn't the worst of it. You fractured your skull which caused severe bleeding. You were already in surgery by the time I found out what had happened. Prognosis was grim; your brain was still bleeding and swollen. They weren't sure that you would wake; even if you did it was unsure what mental capabilities you would have. Then, you went into that coma and every day that you were asleep it became less likely that you would wake at all…." Sherlock trailed off as he spoke. He got a strange look on his face that John couldn't place and then stood up suddenly. " Um…I've forgotten something….I'll be right back" and he rushed out of the room before John had time to say or do anything.

John was confused and he was sure that it wasn't just part of the coma. Sherlock was being totally….weird. One second he was rattling on scholastically like he often did and then the next minuet he ran out of the room like he was going to be sick or something. John laid his head back and closed his head. Whatever it was, John was quite sure that he didn't have the metal capabilities yet to figure it out. He didn't know how long Sherlock was gone, but he wasn't awake when Sherlock returned.

…

He was going to cry….bloody cry. What was wrong with him? He had to pull it together.

Sherlock leaned against the wall in the hallway and breathed in and out. He watched other people in the hallway; he wasn't the only one in the hallway that was falling to pieces. Sure the other people were much more open about their emotions; one elderly woman was wailing from the room next to him, a middle aged man was arguing vehemently with a doctor down the hall, a couple was crying quietly in chairs that sat in the hallway. Maybe this was the _normal _human response to grief and upset; to cry. It sure seemed that way with all the time that he had spent in the hospital these past weeks. But he was _not _normal and therefore he did not have to give into these weak responses. John was fine now, what reason on earth did he have for shedding tears. None whatsoever.

He'd already lost control of himself once. The night of the accident Sherlock had lost control of his emotions at John's bedside falling into tears. It was messy and unpleasant and made him feel very much out of control. Sherlock hated that feeling; he was always in control and he liked it that way. He was always five steps ahead of everyone else, always fixing problems that no one else could. To be out of control had been extremely unpleasant.

The past 15 days had been a blur and yet they felt like that had lasted forever. Sherlock knew statistically that every day that John was asleep that it was less likely that he would wake up. It also increased the likeyhood that he would be mentally impaired. Sherlock hadn't known what to do. He couldn't go to the flat; it was too quiet and boring without John. When he went to the flat all he did was think about how John was doing. Lestrade had even called him twice but Sherlock hadn't replied to his calls. It was like ever since John's accident all he could think about was John. It was really quite annoying and he didn't understand what his mind was doing. Thinking about John and how he was doing wasn't going to solve any problems or make him any better so it was really annoying that he couldn't get it out of his head. So, since he couldn't be productive, he hadn't bothered to call Lestrade.

He hadn't been able to sleep, not that this was much of a problem. Hospitals were unpleasant places, not conductive to sleep. He had felt the need to be by John's bedside; it had after all, been proven that people who had once been in comas often reported hearing voices while they were asleep. Sherlock figured that it couldn't hurt John's chances of waking up for him to talk to him. Only it was really awkward talking to a person who didn't talk back. So, instead Sherlock decided that the best thing to do was to read to John. When he went back to the flat to change clothes he had picked up several of John's favorite books. They were rather boring pieces, but Sherlock knew that John liked them so he read them. He hadn't even been aware that he had fallen asleep finally until he had awoken.

That was when the nurse had told him that John had woken up when he was asleep. She said that he was doing well and seemed to remember a lot. She seemed overly optimistic but Sherlock wasn't going to believe it until he actually saw John wake for himself. And then he did….

The sick, churning feeling that he had felt went away immediately when he saw John wake up. He wasn't sure why this should be, but his emotions seemed to be affecting him physically a lot lately and though he didn't like this fact, it was entirely unexpected. John was awake and he was well. Until now Sherlock hadn't realized how fast his mind had been going until now when it seemed to stop. When the tears tried to come.

Sherlock shook his head and rubbed at his sore eyes, gaining composure. This was no time at all to be someone he wasn't; John needed him to be strong. He needed stability and the one in control that he'd always been.

When Sherlock's eyes felt normal again and his mind had stilled he went back into the room, thinking about what excuse he was going to give John. Luckily, though, John was already fast asleep again and he didn't have to think of an excuse. Sherlock sat back down in the chair that he had been occupying before he rushed out. Now that John was sleeping normally he discarded the dull book that he'd been reading. Despite the fact that he'd slept for a short time that night, he felt drained again. He was glad that John was well again; maybe once he began to heal Sherlock could begin to fell normal again.

Since John was not awake anymore and he had no case to think about Sherlock didn't see any reason to fight the fatigue that was coming over him. He let his head drop forward to the bed and fell asleep to the sound of John's slight snoring.


	14. Chapter 14

The day was dreary and wet, rain pelting the top of the cab as they drove through town, but to Sherlock and John it was a good day. After weeks in the hospital, John was finally able to return home. He sat in the cab and watched lazily through the window, listening to the rare silence. He'd been having headaches almost nonstop since the accident and the hospital didn't help; it had been so loud. All the sounds, talking, monitors beeping had added to the intensity of his headaches and kept him from sleeping well. It seemed that for once Sherlock could sense John wanted silence; for once, he was quiet the entire ride from the hospital back to the flat. For this, John was very grateful.

He turned his head and looked at the detective; he was sitting with his eyes turned toward the window though John doubted that he was also watching the rain. He was sure that his mind was racing with million thoughts but he was kind enough to keep them to himself. John was both surprised and relived at how Sherlock had been helpful since the accident. He had stayed by John's side pretty much the whole time even after he had woken up, leaving only for brief periods of time. He had surprised John on a few occasions by bringing some of John's favorite take away to the hospital, much to John's delight and the nurses' dismay. And he had had the foresight to bring John some clothes before they left the hospital for which he was extremely pleased about. John was so sick of wearing those horrible hospital gown which covered next to nothing and left him continually chilled. He was glad to be wearing a full set of clothes now. Sherlock had even brought him a cap for head which helped a lot. Since John's hair only just began to grow back in, he felt ridiculous with the way that he looked. Vain and stupid maybe, but he was glad to have his bare, scarred head covered.

When the cab stopped at John's flat Sherlock paid the cabbie as John struggled out of the cab. He'd been in a wheelchair to get down to the cab and now that he didn't have that it put him in the awkward position of trying to hobble out. Since he had a broken arm on the same side as his broken leg, the crutches that they gave him were useless. Until this moment he hadn't considered exactly how he was going to get around; he hadn't exactly done a whole lot of moving in the hospital and when he did need to get around he'd had nurses to help him. This put him in a rather awkward position; the last thing on earth he was going to do was ask Sherlock to help him hobble around. He liked to think that he still had some dignity left.

John used his good arm to grip the side of the cab and pull himself out. He stood on his good leg and proceeded to hop towards the door. He got about three steps when he lost balance. Right before he fell flat on his face he felt strong arms grab him from behind and catch him. "What on earth do you think you're doing?" Sherlock asked as he pulled John up.

"Um, walking to the door. What do you think?" John asked. He was embarrassed enough that he had almost fallen.

"Well, you're doing a great job of that" Sherlock observed. " Trying to injure yourself further?"

"Shut up" John muttered as he flushed red and attempted to hobble again. He got two steps away when he felt Sherlock's arm around him to steady him. His faced turned about twenty shades redder. "What are you doing?" he asked embarrassed.

"Shut up and stop being so bloody proud" Sherlock said as he walked towards the door. John wasn't sure that he'd ever been so embarrassed as having Sherlock's arms around him on a public street, but as usual, Sherlock did have a point; he couldn't get very far without help.

Sherlock helped John into the house and back to his room. John hopped awkwardly onto his bed, stretching his broken leg out. He moved his pillows behind him so that he was comfortably sitting up and when he turned around Sherlock was gone. John listened and he could hear Sherlock puttering around in the kitchen. A few minutes later Sherlock returned to John's room with a cup of tea and a few of John's books. He placed them on the nightstand.

Sherlock fidgeted slightly (still a surprise to John) and he said, " Uh, so there you go….need anything else?"

There were a great number of things that John wanted actually; a decent meal would be a nice start and a couple of warm quilts for the bed wouldn't hurt. Not to mention that he would love to get into some pajamas but he didn't even want to attempt that until Sherlock was long gone. "No, I think I've got everything that I need. Thanks for the cuppa" he held it up and took a drink.

Instead of leave, Sherlock just stood there and fidgeted some more. He paced back and forth, his eyes darted around; it was totally bizarre. "Nothing? Are you sure? You sure that I can't do something for you? I know that you are uncomfortable, surely I can do something to make your feel better?" he asked.

The bizarreness of Sherlock's behavior was increasing. He never fidgeted. He never wanted to "take care of" anyone. He'd been completely quiet almost all day except for now. And now he was "hovering". " Sherlock, really, I'm fine" John said. " My head hurts, sure but I'll just take a nap and I'll be okay. Some sleep, a little peace and quiet, really that's all that I need"

He was sure that Sherlock would leave now. Only he didn't; he continued to pace agitatedly as he said, "Surely I can do something John, I _want _to do something to help"

John was confused and he was sure that it showed on his face. " Really, Sherlock. I don't need anything. I'm fine" he said.

"No you're not!" Sherlock said loudly, throwing his hands out as he faced John "You're not fine, you've been in a terrible accident!"

"Um, Sherlock" John said unsure of why he was acting so bizarre. " Yeah, I was injured, but I'm out of the woods now. I'm okay, really. I'm glad you're so willing to help me but really if I need something I'll let you know"

"Well, of course I'm willing to help!" Sherlock almost shouted as he began to pace again and gesture angrily with his hands. " I should, shouldn't I? I did put you here so it's the LEAST that I can do!"

Suddenly it made sense to John. It may not have made sense to Sherlock, at least not completely but John understood. Sherlock was being so helpful because he blamed himself for John's injury. He felt that since John had left after their fight and had then gotten into an accident that it was his fault that he had almost died. Honestly the thought hadn't even occurred to John, but he could see where Sherlock was coming from.

John didn't want Sherlock to run away so he treaded lightly on the subject. " What do you mean you put me here? I had an accident, that's all it was. A total accident; I wasn't paying attention and ran out into the street. You had nothing to do with that"

"Oh don't be so dull, John" Sherlock exclaimed. " You were out there because we argued, you got angry and left. If we hadn't had a row you would have never been in that accident"

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at John. For the first time ever, John thought that Sherlock look….vulnerable. His face was red as if from anger but his eyes shown with pain. He was actually upset. John tried to think of something to say that would keep Sherlock going but he couldn't think of anything. " Sherlock…." Was all that he managed to utter.

In the way that John said Sherlock's name he must have set him off to the fact that he had said something of meaning because Sherlock started for the door. "Wait!" John called out, and to his surprise Sherlock stopped. "You come back here right now, Sherlock Holmes" at this Sherlock turned around, probably surprised that John sounded so commanding. " I obviously am in no position to force you, but please, as my friend, come back here and talk to me"

Sherlock stood in the doorway with a look on his face that said he was weighing the options of staying and running. "You asked me if I needed anything" John said, " Well, actually there is something you can do for me. You can come back here and talk to me"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in frustration but he walked over to John's desk, pulled his chair to beside the bed and sat down. "Really, John? This is what you need?" he asked as if it was the most ridiculous thing. He was avoiding eye contact.

"Sherlock, I don't blame you" John said calmly. He waited for a moment and eventually Sherlock's eyes looked up at him. In the light that shown through the window and fell upon Sherlock's face, John could see Sherlock deducing again (sometimes that really got old); probably deciding whether or not he was telling the truth.

"Really, Sherlock, I don't" John continued. " The thought never crossed my mind. It was my fault; I darted out into traffic like a toddler and so I got hit. Really, I should have been looking."

Sherlock looked down at his hands. " You were distracted because you were upset" he said. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He was obviously uncomfortable, but John was just glad that he wasn't shutting down completely.

"Well, yeah I was upset" John admitted. " But that doesn't mean it had anything to do with my accident. Sure, I was furious at you. You made me feel like a total spectacle. You were harsh, cruel. But I know really that's not who you are."

It was silent for a long time. John thought he'd go crazy from the silence, silence he had so longed for for weeks. But silence with Sherlock Holmes wasn't a good thing. There was no sound save for the ticking of the clock on the wall and the distant sound of traffic outside.

After what seemed like forever, Sherlock finally spoke. " I am…sorry, John" he said. He wouldn't look at John and his voice sounded strained. " I know that I've been…..a little….impossible lately. I know I said things that were…..not good. My words hurt you and….I'm sorry"

John couldn't really believe Sherlock was _apologizing _to him. It just wasn't something that he did. He felt like he should say something, to point out just how hurtful he had been, but he couldn't. "Its okay Sherlock" he said. When Sherlock apologized to you, you simply accepted because it was a big deal.

"When you talked to me…." Sherlock continued " About how you _felt _….I couldn't quite…..I didn't know what to say. You said that you missed me and then you wanted me to talk….I got angry because I didn't want to say…..I couldn't say….I…"

And in possibly the most unexpected thing John had ever had happen, Sherlock leaned forward and wrapped his arms around John in a hug. John was so surprised at first that he just sat there. At any second he was expecting Sherlock to do something weird, move away and try to act like he hadn't hugged him. But Sherlock didn't do that; he stayed with his arms around John in an embrace. John put his arms around his friend. John didn't want to admit it, but he felt something hard inside him melt.

At first the gesture seemed awkward, for both John and Sherlock, but when John felt all the hardness and resentment that he had felt towards Sherlock melt away in forgiveness, his muscles relaxed and hug felt more natural. When John relaxed he could feel Sherlock's posture relax as well and, though he couldn't be certain, he was sure he felt Sherlock's grip tighten.

Sherlock never finished saying what he was going to say and he didn't have to. In that hug John could read everything that Sherlock couldn't say with words. That he had had a hard time on his own, that he was still hurting, and that, deep down, he had missed John.

….

John carried the last box up the stairs and struggled against the fatigue that he felt; he refused to give up. It had been a long and tiring day but John honestly felt good. His legs burned, his arms hurt and he was sweating profusely, but he felt good. He walked the remaining stairs and into the familiar flat of 221 B.

It had been 2 months since John had returned home from the hospital and things had just improved since then. His broken bones had finally healed, and though for a while he had relied on his cane again because of his broken leg, this time it was not for a psychosomatic reason. Much to his pleasure his hair hand grown back as well and he was just beginning to feel normal again. He still had headaches from time to time but they weren't the everyday affair that they had been right after the accident. He had regained his appetite again and was eating on a regular basis now; he was almost back to the weight that he had been before Sherlock had left. Though he did have the occasional nightmare still, they were much like his nightmares about the war; they weren't as intense as they had once been and they didn't occur as frequently. John was beginning to think they would occur long term like his war dreams, but he had come to accept this. He was happy….actually happy and that meant that he could face things that came his way. He hadn't touched any alcohol since the night Stamford had brought him home drunk.

But what really helped was that things between him and Sherlock were better. It wasn't like they had talked about what had happened. In fact, after the day that he had come home from the hospital and their awkward hug, they hadn't talked about it at all. John still didn't know what had happened to Sherlock all that time, or where he had gotten those scars, and he was quite sure that he probably never would. But things were starting to be _normal _between them now. And right now for John that was enough. They still didn't see each other a whole lot because of John's hours at the office, but they were talking on a daily basis and that was something that hadn't happened since Sherlock had returned. John couldn't be sure, but he thought that Sherlock was feeling more at ease as well; he wasn't playing such sad songs now, at least.

John deposited the last box on the floor of the flat with the others. John didn't want to think about the work that lay ahead with unpacking (that he was sure to be doing most of) ; right now he just wanted to be content in the fact him and Sherlock were home. Really home.

Sherlock was sitting in his old chair which was positioned close to the window at the moment. The window was open but the hot, humid air of the summer day was still overwhelming. The sun shone brightly and not a leaf rustled on the trees; it was obvious no relief was going to come from the wind today. Sherlock's pale face was flushed with red and he was fanning himself with a magazine. John had tried to convince Sherlock to wear a pair of shorts and t-shirt – moving clothes- instead of his button downs, but as usual Sherlock wouldn't listen to anything John had to say that was supposed to be helpful.

John plopped down in his own chair, which happened to be much further away from the window than Sherlock's though he was sure that it didn't matter if the wind wasn't going to blow. " That the last one?" Sherlock asked as he looked at John.

"Yes, finally, that's the last one" John said through catching his breath. He mopped his sweating head with a handkerchief. "We've finally got it all."

"Hope you haven't exerted yourself too much today" Sherlock said casually as he fanned himself. John was still getting used to this version of Sherlock that seemed to actually _worry _about him. Ever since the accident Sherlock would throw these causal comments in from time to time as John continued to heal. Comment that he needed to get more sleep, or eat more, rest your leg, take a nap….at times he'd actually been quite nagging. John smiled to himself; it was a good time of nagging.

"Trust me, I'm fine" John said though he was still catching his breath and every muscle hurt. He felt useful, normal, healthy again. " I feel like all I do in my hours at home these days are sleep. Trust me, I need some overexertion."

There was the sound of steps on the stairs and soon Mrs. Hudson walked into the flat, carrying a pitcher of water and glasses which she handed to Sherlock and John who took them gladly.

"Drink up" she said as she handed them the glasses " You two are going to dry up in this heat" She set the pitcher down on a stack of boxes and looked around at the flat, practically beaming. "I'm so glad you boys are back. Its hardly felt the same without you" She walked over to Sherlock, putting an arm around his shoulders and giving him a half hug " Shame on you for scaring me to death….scaring us all to death" she gave John a knowing look. She used a joking tone but her face showed her genuine gladness. Shortly after John's accident Sherlock had went to visit Mrs. Hudson and tell her he was alive. Because he was so ill John missed that reunion too, but Sherlock filled him in on all the "ridiculous" details as he called them. Details like how Mrs. Hudson " bloody passed out on the floor, I was just fortunate to break her fall in time" and how when she awoke she "beat me shamelessly with her handbag. Rather uncalled for". John had been bored in bed all day that day and he remembered laughing, genuinely laughing as Sherlock told the story. He was also pleased when Sherlock told him that Mrs. Hudson had not rented out 221 B; in fact she would be happy to have them come right back to their old home if they wanted to. Since the one bedroom arrangement wasn't working very well they decided to move back. Well, that, and the fact that 221B was their actual _home. _

And as John looked around at the flat, unchanged except for where their things now sat, the same old smell, the same bullet holes in the wall, listening to Mrs. Hudson dote on him and Sherlock, John was genuinely happy. He wasn't sure that he had been this happy since before Sherlock's disappearance. Finally, things felt _normal _again.

Mrs. Hudson walked down to her own flat to attend to a few things, leaving Sherlock and John in the silence of the flat. The only sounds that drifted into the room were the sounds of traffic through the window. Neither he nor Sherlock said how happy they were to be back, but John was sure Sherlock was thinking it as he was looking around the flat just as John had just been doing.

A minute later Sherlock's phone rang. "Hello" Sherlock answered. "Yes….I see, of course, yes…..I'll be there shortly" he put his phone back into his pocket and got up from his chair, starting for the door.

"Are you leaving already?" John asked, "We've only just settled in"

"I must" Sherlock said. Before he even said it, John could tell what Sherlock was going to say. John could read the excited flush of his cheeks and the light in his eyes. "That was Lestrade. Seems there have been five murders in the past month; he suspects they are linked but as usual the rest of the idiots around him do not. They do not see the signs…." Sherlock's whole face lit up. "Suspected serial killer we have on our hands."

John was just beginning to feel a little deflated that Sherlock was going to leave so soon after arriving back home when Sherlock began to tap his foot impatiently. " Well, John, what _are _you waiting for?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if John was being impossible. "I said, _serial killer. _ On a case like this I _must _have my blogger with me"

John turned around and looked at Sherlock standing in the doorway. Sherlock was smiling from ear to ear and John didn't suppress the urge to do the same.

And so it was with the same excitement that he felt four years ago on their very first case John followed Sherlock out the door of 221 B to whatever their new adventure was. Once again, the game was on.

**Well guys, that's the end of this story :) Thank you all for your reviews, follows and favs. I hope that you have enjoyed "He's Shattered" I may write a story about what Sherlock and John did during the three years they were separated, a spin off of this story, but that will be a little further down the road. If you liked my story, try out my other current Sherlock fics, " Stagnation" and " The Secret Life of a Doctor and Detective" Thanks again for taking the time to read my story. **


End file.
